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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 




COLERIDGE, SHELLEY, AND KEATS, 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



fl'C'Uf.O't'VrKO 15V J HOWE. 



DESILVER, THOMAS, & Co., No. 247, MARKET ST. 
18 35. 



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Page 

MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE v 

JUVENILE POEMS 1 

Genevieve 2 

Sonnet, to the Autumnal Moon ib. 

Time, Real and Imaginary, an Allegory . . ib. 

Monody on the death of Chatterton .... ih. 

Songs of the Pixies 4 

The Raven, a Christmas Tale, told by a 

School-boy to his little Brothers and Sisters 5 

Absence : a Farewell Ode on quitting School 

for Jesus College, Cambridge ib. 

Lines on an Autumnal Evening ib. 

The Rose 6 

The Kiss . ib. 

To a Young Ass — its Mother being tethered 

near it 7 

Domestic Peace ib. 

The Sigh ib. 

Epitaph on an Infant ib. 

Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross . . ib. 

Lines to a beautiful Spring in a Village . . 8 

Lines on a Friend, who died of a frenzy fe- 
ver induced by calumnious reports . . . ib. 

To a Young Lady, with a Poem on the French 

Revolution ib. 

Sonnet " My hearthas thanked thee, Bowles ! 

for those soft strains" 9 

— " As late I lay in slumber's shadowy 

vale" ib. 

" Though roused by that dark vizir, 

Riot rude" ib. 

" When British Freedom for a hap- 
pier land" ib. 

" It was some spirit, Sheridan ! that 

breathed" ib. 

• " O what a loud and fearful shriek 

was there" ib. 

• " As when far off the warbled strains 

are heard" 10 

r- " Thou gentle look, that didst my 

soul beguile" ib. 

" Pale roamer through the night ! 

thou poor forlorn !" ib. 

" Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart 

has bled" ib. 

" Thou bleedest, my poor heart ! and 

thy distress" ib. 

To the Author of the " Robbers" . ib. 

Lines composed while climbing the left as- 
cent of Brockley Coomb, Somersetshire, 

May, 1795 ib. 

Lines, in the manner of Spenser 11 

imitated from Ossian ib. 

The Complaint of Ninathoma ib. 

Lines, imitated from the Welsh ib. 

to an infant ib. 

in answer to a Letter from Bristol . . 12 

to a Friend, in answer to a melancholy 

Letter 13 



Page 
Religious Musings ; a Desultory Poem ... 13 
The Destiny of Nations; a Vision ...... 17 

SIBYLLINE LEAVES :— 

L POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS, OR 
FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 

Ode to the Departing Year 21 

France; an Ode 23 

Fears in Solitude ; written in April, 1798, 

during the alarm of an Invasion 24 

Fire, Famine, and Slaughter; a War Eclogue 26 
Recantation — illustrated in the Story of the 

Mad Ox 27 

II. LOVE POEMS. 

Introduction to the tale of the Dark Ladie 28 
Lewti, or the Circassian Love Chaunt ... 29 
The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution . . 30 
The Night Scene ; a Dramatic Fragment . 31 
To an Unfortunate Woman, whom the Au- 
thor had knoviTi in the days of her inno- 
cence 32 

To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre 33 

Lines, composed in a Concert-room ib. 

The Keepsake ib. 

To a Lady, with Falconer's " Shipwreck" . 34 
To a Young Lady, on her Recovery from a 

Fever ib. 

Something childish, but very natural — writ- 
ten in GermanW ib. 

Home-sick — written in Germany ib. 

Answer to a Child's Question ib. 

The Visionary Hope .35 

The Happy Husband ; a Fragment ib. 

Recollections of Love ib. 

On Revisiting the Sea-shore after long ab- 
sence ib. 

The Composition of a Kiss 36 

III. MEDITATIVE POEMS. 

Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Cha- 
mouny ib. 

Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode, 
in the Hartz Forest 37 

On observing a Blossom on the 1st of Feb- 
ruaiy, 1796 ib. 

The Eolian Harp — composed at Clevedon, 
Somersetshire ib 

Reflections on having left a Place of Retire- 
ment . . . 38 

To the Rev. Geo. Coleridge of Ottery St. 
Mary, Devon— with some Poems .... 39 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath . . . ib. 

A Tombless Epitaph 39 

This Lime-tree Bower my Prison 40 

To a Friend, who had declared his intention 
of writing no more Poetry ih. 

To a Gentleman — composed on the night 
after his Recitation of a Poem on the 

Growth of an Individual Mind 41 

3 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Nightingale ; a Conversation Poem . . 42 

Frost at Midnight 43 

To a Friend, together with an unfinished 

Poem ih. 

The Hour when we shall meet again ... 44 

Lines to Joseph Cottle ib. 

• IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Three Graves ; a Fragment of a Sex- 
ton's Tale ib. 

Dejection ; an Ode 48 

Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 49 

Ode to Tranquillity 50 

To a Young Friend, on his proposing to do- 
mesticate with the Author ih. 

lines to W. L. Esq., while he sang to Pur- 
cell's Music 51 

Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune, 
who abandoned himself to an indolent 
and causeless Melancholy ib. 

Sonnet to the River Otter ib. 

composed on a Journey homeward ; 

the Author having received intelligence 

of the Birth of a Son, Sept. 20, 1796 . . ib. 

Sonnet — To a Friend, who asked how I felt 
when the Nurse firet presented my In- 
fant to me 52 

The Virgin's Cradle Hymn ib. 

On the Christening of a Friend's Child . . ib. 

Epitaph on an Infant ib. 

Melancholy ; a Fragment ib. 

Tell's Birth-place — imitated from Stolberg 53 

A Christmas Carol ib. 

Human Life, on the Denial of Immortality ib. 

The Visit of the Gods — imitated from 
Schiller 54 

Elegy — imitated from Akenside's blank 
verse Inscriptions ib. 

Kubla Khan ; or a Vision in a Dream . . . ib. 

The Pains of Sleep 55 

Appendix. 

Apologetic Preface to " Fire, Famine, and 

Slaughter ib. 

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 60 

CHRISTABEL 66 

REMORSE ; a Tragedy, in Five Acts 73 

ZAPOLYA ; a Christmas Tale. 

Part I. the prelude, entitled " the 
usurper's fortune" 96 



Page 
Part II. the SEauEL, entitled "the 
usurper's fate" 102 

THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE FIRST PART 
OF WALLENSTEIN ; a Drama, trans- 
lated from the German of Schiller . . .121 

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN ; a Tra- 
gedy, in Five Acts 168 

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE ,- an Historic 

Drama 203 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.— 

prose in rhyme ; or epigrams, moralities, 
and things without a name. 

Love 212 

Duty surviving Self-love, the only Sure 
Friend of Declining Life ; a Soliloquy .213 

Phantom or Fact ? a Dialogue in Verse . . ib. 

Work Avithout Hope ih. 

Youth and Age ih, 

A Day-dream 214 

To a Lady, offended by a sportive observa- 
tion that women have no souls .... ib. 

" I have heard of reasons manifold" .... tb. 

Lines suggested by the Last Words of Be- 
rengarius ih. 

The Devil's Thoughts ih. 

Constancy to an Ideal Object 215 

The Suicide's Argument, and Nature's An- 
swer ih. 

The Blossoming of the SoUtary Date-tree ; 
a Lament 216 

Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the 
Clouds ih. 

The Two Founts ; Stanzas addressed to a 
Lady on her recovery, with imblemished 
looks, from a severe attack of pain . . ih. 

What is Life? 217 

The Exchange ih. 

Sonnet, composed by the Sea-side, October, 
1817 ih. 

Epigrams ih. 

The Wanderings of Cain 218 

Allegoric Vision 220 

The Improvisatore, or " Jolm Anderson, my 
jo, John" 222 

The Garden of Boccaccio 224 

4 



iWewott of Samuel KunUv ®oleri5ffle. 



There is no writer of his time who has been 
more the theme of panegyric by his friends, and 
of censure by his enemies, than Coleridge. It has 
been the custom of the fcfrmer to injure him by 
extravagant praise, and of the latter to pour upon 
his head much unmerited abuse. Coleridge has 
left imdone so much which his talents and genius 
would have enabled him to effect, and has done on 
the whole so little, that he has given his foes ap- 
parent foundation for some of their vituperation. 
His natural character, however, is indolent ; he is 
far more ambitious of excelling in conversation, 
and of pouring out his wild philosophical theories 
I —of discoursing about 

Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute— 

[ the mysteries of Kant, and the dreams of meta- 

i physical vanity, than "in building the lofty 

rhyme." His poems, however, which have been 

j recently collected, form several volumes ; — and the 

beauty of some of his pieces so amply redeems 

the extravagance of others, that there can be but 

one regret respecting him, namely, that he should 

have preferred the shortlived perishing applause 

bestowed upon his conversation, to the lasting 

renown attending successful poetical efforts. Not 

I but that Coleridge may lay claim to the praise due 

I to a successflil worship of the muses ; for as long 

as the English language endures, his " Genevieve" 

q,nd " Ancient Mariner" will be read : but he has 

been content to do far less than his abilities clearly 

demonstrate him able to effect. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery 
Saint Mary, a town of Devonshire, in 1773. His 
father, the Rev. John Coleridge, was vicar there, 
having been previously a schoolmaster at South 
Molton. He is said to have been a person of con- 
siderable learning, and to have published several 
essays in fugitive publications. He assisted Dr. 
Kennicot in collating his manuscripts for a Hebrew 
bible, and, among other things, wrote a dissertation 
on the " Aoyo?." He was also the author of an 
excellent Latin grammar. He died in 1782, at the 
age of sixty-two, much regretted, leaving a con- 
siderable family, three of which, if so many, are 
all who now survive; and of these the poet is the 
youngest. 

Coleridge was educated at Christ's Hospital 

school, London. The smallness of his father's 

living and large family rendered the strictest 

I economy necessary. At this excellent seminary 

I he was soon discovered to be a boy of talent, ec 

centric but acute. According to his own state 

I ment, the master, tlie Rev. J. Bowyer, was a severe 



disciplinarian afler the inane practice of Englisli 
grammar-school modes, but was fond of encour- 
aging genius, even in the lads he flagellated most 
unmercifully. He taught with assiduity, and di- 
rected the taste of youth to the beauties of the 
better classical authors, and to comparisons of one 
with another. " He habituated me," says Cole- 
ridge, " to compare Lucretius, Terence, and above 
all the chaste poems of Catullus, not only with the 
Roman poets of the so called silver and brazen 
ages, but with even those of the Augustan era ; 
and, on gromids of plain sense and universal logic, 
to see and assert the superiority of the former, in 
the truth and nativeness both of their thoughts and 
diction. At the same time that we were studying 
the Greek tragic poets, he made us read Shak- 
speare and Milton as lessons ; and they were the 
lessons too which required most time and trouble 
to bring up, so as to escape his censure. I learned 
from him that poetry, even that of the loftiest, and 
seemingly that of the wildest odes, had a logic of 
its own, as severe as that of science, and more 
difficult; because more subtle and complex, and 
dependent on more and more fugitive causes. In 
our English compositions (at least for the last 
three years of our school education) he showed no 
mercy to phrase, image, or metaphor, unsupported 
by a sound sense, or where the same sense might 
have been conveyed with equal force and dignity 
in plainer words. Lute, harp, and lyre, muse^ 
muses, and inspirations — Pegasus, Parnassus and 
Hippocrene, were all an abomination to him. In 
fancy, I can almost hear him now exclaiming — 
' Harp ! harp ! lyre ! pen and ink, boy, you mean ! 
muse, boy, muse ! your nurse's daughter, you 
mean ! Pierian spring ! O ay I the cloister pimip, 
I suppose.' " In his " Literary Life," Coleridge 
has gone into the conduct of his master at great 
length ; and, compared to the majority of peda- 
gogues who ruled in grammar-schools at that time, 
he seems to have been a singular and most honor- 
able exception among them. He sent his pupils to 
the university excellent Greek and Latin scholars, 
with some knowledge of Hebrew, and a consider- 
able insight into the construction and beauties of 
their vernacular language and its most distin- 
guished writers — a rare addition to their classical 
acquirements in such foundations. 

It was owing to a present made to Coleridge of 
Bowles' sonnets by a school-fellow (the late Dr. 
Middleton) while a boy of 17, that he was drawn 
away from theological controversy and wild meta- 
physics to the charms of poetry. He transcribed 
these sonnets no less than forty times in eighteen 

5 



VI 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



months, in order to make presents of them to his 
friends ; and about the same period he wrote his 
Ode to Chatterton. "Nothing else," he says, 
*' pleased me ; history and partictdar facts lost all 
interest in my mind." Poetry had become in- 
sipid ; all his ideas were directed to his favorite 
theological subjects and mysticisms, imtil Bowles' 
Bonnets, and an acquaintance with a very agreeable 
family, recalled him to more pleasant paths, com- 
bined with perhaps far more of rational pursuits. 

When eighteen years of age, Coleridge removed 
to Jesus College, Cambridge. It does not appear 
that he obtained or even struggled for academic 
honors. From excess of animal spirits, he was 
rather a noisy youth, whose general conduct was 
better than that of many of his fellow-collegians, 
and as good as most: his follies were more remark- 
able only as being those of a more remarkable 
personage ; and if he could be accused of a vice, it 
must be sought for in the little attention he was 
inclined to pay to the dictates of sobriety. It is 
known that he assisted a friend in composing an 
essay on English poetry while at that University ; 
that he was not unmindftd of the muses himself 
while there ; and that he regretted the loss of the 
leisure and quiet he had found within its precincts. 

In the month of November, 1793, while laboring 
under a paroxysm of despair, brought on by the 
combined effects of pecuniary difficulties and love 
of a young lady, sister of a school-fellow, he set 
off for London with a party of collegians, and 
passed a short time there in joyous conviviality. 
On his return to Cambridge, he remained but a 
few days, and then abandoned it for ever. He 
again directed his steps towards the metropolis, 
and there, after indulging somewhat freely in the 
pleasures of the bottle, and wandering about the 
various streets and squares in a state of mind 
nearly approaching to frenzy, he finished by enlist- 
ing in the 15th dragoons, under the name of Clum- 
berbacht. Here he continued some time, the 
wonder of his comrades, and, a subject of mystery 
and curiosity to his officers. While engaged in 
watching a sick comrade, which he did night and 
day, he is said to have got involved in a dispute 
with the regimental sm-geon ; but the disciple of 
Esculapius had no chance with the follower of 
the muses ; he was astounded and put to flight by 
the profound erudition and astonishing eloquence 
of his antagonist. His friends at length found 
him out, and procm:ed his discharge. 

In 1794, Coleridge pubUshed a small volume of 
poems, which were much praised by the critics of 
the time, though it appears they abounded in ob- 
scurities and epithets too common with young 
writers. He also published, in the same year, 
while residing at Bristol, " The Fall of Robes- 
pierre, an Historic Drama," which displayed con- 
siderable talent. It was written in conjunction 
with Southey; and what is remarkable in this 



composition is, tliat they began it at 7 o'clock one 
evening, finished it the next day by 12 o'clock 
noon, and the day after, it was printed and pub- 
lished. The language is vigorous, and the speeches 
are well put together and correctly versified. — 
Coleridge also, m the winter of that year, delivered 
a course of lectures on the French revolution, at 
Bristol. 

On leaving the University, Coleridge was fiill 
of enthusiasm in the cause of freedom, and occu- 
pied with the idea of the regeneration of mankind. 
He found ardent coadjutors in the same enthusi- 
astic undertaking in Robert Lovell and Robert 
Southey, the present courtly laureate. This youth- 
ful triumvirate proposed schemes for regenerating 
the world, even before their educations were com- 
pleted ; and dreamed of happy lives in aboriginal 
forests, republics on the Mississippi, and a newly- 
dreamed philanthropy. In order to carry their 
ideas into effect they began operations at Bristol, 
and were received with considerable applause by 
several inhabitants of that commercial city, which, 
however remarkable for traffic, has been frequently 
styled the Boeotia of the west of England. Here, 
in 1795, Coleridge published two pamphlets, one 
called " Consciones ad Populmn, or addresses to 
the people ;" the other, " A protest against certain 
bills (then pending) for suppressing seditious 
meetings." 

The charm of the political regeneration of na- 
tions, though thus warped for a moment, was not 
broken. Coleridge, Lovell and Southey, finding 
the old world would not be reformed after their 
mode, determined to try and found a new one, in 
which all was to be liberty and happiness. The 
deep woods of America were to be the site of this 
new golden region. There all the evils of Eu- 
ropean society were to be remedied, property was 
to be in common, and every man a legislator. The 
name of " Pantisocracy" was bestowed upon the 
favored scheme, while yet it existed only in imagi- 
nation. Unborn ages of human happiness present- 
ed themselves before the triad of philosophical 
founders of Utopian empires, while they were 
dreaming of human perfectibility: — a harmless 
dream at least, and an aspiration after better things 
than life's realities, which is the best that can be 
said for it. In the midst of tliese plans of vast 
import, the three philosophers fell in love with 
three sisters of Bristol, named Fricker (one of 
them, afterwards Mrs. Lovell, an actress of the 
Bristol theatre, another a mantua-maker, and the 
third kept a day-school), and all their visions of 
immortal freedom faded into thin air. They mar- 
ried, and occupied themselves with the increase 
of the corrupt race of the old world, instead of 
peopling the new. Thus, unhappily for America 
and mankind, failed the scheme of the Pantisoc- 
racy, on which at one time so much of human 
happiness and political regeneration was by its 

6 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



VH 



founders believed to depend. None have revived 
the phantasy since ; but Coleridge has lived to 
sober down his early extravagant views of political 
freedom into something like a disavowal of having 
held them ; but he has never changed into a foe 
of the generous principles of human freedom, 
which he ever espoused; while Southey has be- 
come the enemy of political and religious freedom, 
the supporter and advocate of arbitrary measures 
in church and state, and the vituperator of all who 
support the recorded principles of his early years. 
About this time, and with the same object, 
namely, to spread the principles of true liberty, 
Coleridge began a weekly paper called "The 
"Watchman," which only reached its ninth num- 
ber, though the editor set out on his travels to pro- 
cure subscribers among the friends of the doc 
trines he espoused, and visited Birmingham, 
Manchester, Derby, Nottingham, and Sheffield, 
for the purpose. :. The failure of this paper was a 
severe mortification to the projector. No ground 
was gained on the score of liberty, though about 
the same time his self-love was flattered by the 
success of a volmne of poems, which he repub- 
lished, with some communications from his friends 
Lamb and Lloyd. 

Coleridge married Miss Sarah Fricker in the 
autumn of 1795, and in the following year his 
eldest son. Hartley, was born. Two more sons, 
Berkley and Derwent, were the fruits of this union. 
In 1797, he resided at Nether Stowey, a village 
near Bridgewater, in Somersetshire, and wrote 
there in the spring, at the desire of Sheridan, a 
tragedy, which was, in 1813, brought out under 
the title of "Remorse:" the name it originally 
bore was Osorio. There were some circumstances 
in this business that led to a suspicion of Sheridan's 
not having acted with any great regard to truth 
or feeling. During his residence here, Coleridge 
was in the habit of preaching every Sunday at the 
Unitarian Chapel in Taunton, and was greatly 
• respected by the better class of his neighbors. He 
enjoyed the friendship of Wordsworth, who lived 
at Allfoxden, about two miles from Stowey, and 
was occasionally visited by Charles Lamb, John 
Thelwall, and other congenial spirits. "The 
Brook," a poem that he planned about this period, 
was never completed. 

Coleridge had married before he possessed the 
means of supporting a family, and he depended 
principally for subsistence, at Stowey, upon his 
literary labors, the remuneration for which could 
be but scanty. At length, in 1798, the kind patron- 
age of the late Thomas Wedgwood, Esq., who 
granted him a pension of lOOZ. a-year, enabled 
him to plan a visit to Germany; to which country 
he proceeded with Wordsworth, and studied the 
language at Ratzeburg, and then went to Gottin- 
gen. He there attended the lectures of Blumen- 



bach on natural history and physiology, and the 
lectures of Eichhorn on the New Testament ; and 
from professor Tychven he learned the Gothic 
grammar. He read the Minnesinger and the 
verses of Hans Sachs, the Nuremberg cobbler, but 
his time was principally devoted to literature and 
philosophy. At the end of his " Biographia Liter- 
aria," Coleridge has published some letters, which 
relate to his sojourn in Germany. He sailed, Sep- 
tember 16th, 1798, and on the 19th landed at Ham- 
burgh. It was on the 20th of the same month 
that he says he was introduced to the brother of 
the great poet Klopstock, to professor Ebeling, 
and ultimately to the poet himself He had an 
impression of awe on his spirits when he set out 
to visit the German Milton, whose humble house 
stood about a quarter of a mile from the city gate. 
He was much disappointed in the countenance of 
Klopstock, which was inexpressive, and without 
peculiarity in any of the features. Klopstock was 
lively and courteous; talked of Milton and Glover, 
and preferred the verse of the latter to the former, 
— a very curious mistake, but natural enough in a 
foreigner. He spoke with indignation of the Eng- 
lish translations of his Messiah. He said his first 
ode was fifty years older than his last, and hoped 
Coleridge would revenge him on Englishmen by 
translating the Messiah. 

On his return from Germany, Coleridge went to 
reside at Keswick, in Cumberland. He had made 
a great addition to his stock of knowledge, and he 
seems to have spared no pains to store up what 
was either useful or speculative. He had become 
master of most of the early German writers, or 
rather of the state of early German literature. He 
dived deeply into the mystical stream of Teutonic 
philosophy. There the predilections of his earlier 
years no doubt came upon him in aid of his 
researches into a labyrinth which no human clue 
will ever unravel ; or which, were one found ca- 
pable of so doing, would reveal a mighty nothing. 
Long, he says, while meditating in England, had 
his heart been with Paul and John, and his head 
with Spinoza. He then became convinced of the 
doctrine of St. Paul, and from an anti-trinitarian 
became a believer in the Trinity, and in Chris- 
tianity as commonly received ; or, to use his own 
word, found a " re-conversion." Yet, for all his 
arguments on the subject, he had better have 
retained his early creed, and saved the time wasted 
in travelling back to exactly the same point where 
he set out, for he finds that faith necessary at last 
which he had been taught, in his church, was 
necessary at his first outset in life. His arguments, 
pro and con, not being of use to any bf the com- 
mimity, and the exclusive property of their owner, 
he had only to look back upon his laborious trifling, 
as Grotius did upon his own toils, when death was 
upon him. Metaphysics are most unprofitable 

7 



Vlll 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



thing's; as political economists say, their labors 
are of the most " unproductive class" in the com- 
munity of thinkers. 

The next step of our poet in a life which seems 
to have had no settled object, but to have been 
steered compassless along, was to undertake the 
political and literary departments of the Morning 
Post newspaper, and in the duties of this situation 
he was engaged in the spring of 1802. No man 
was less fitted for a popular writer ; and, in com- 
mon with his early connexions, Coleridge seems 
to have had no fixed political principles that the 
public could understand, though he perhaps was 
able to reconcile in his own bosom all that others 
might imagine contradictory, and no doubt he did 
so conscientiously. His style and manner of 
writing, the learning and depth of his disquisitions 
for ever came into play, and rendered him unin- 
telligible, or, what is equally fatal, unreadable to 
the mass. It was singular, too, that he disclosed 
in his biography so strongly his unsettled political 
principles, which showed that he had not studied 
politics as he had studied poetry, Kant, and the- 
ology. The public of each party looks upon a 
political writer as a sort of champion around whom 
it Tallies, and feels it impossible to trust the 
changeable leader, or applaud the addresses of him 
who is inconsistent or wavering in principles : it 
will not back out any but the firm unflinching 
partisan. In truth, what an ill compliment do 
men pay to their own judgment, when they run 
counter to, and shift about from points they have 
declared in indelible ink are founded on truth and 
reason irrefutable and eternal ! They must either 
have been superficial smatterers in what they first 
promulgated, and have appeared prematurely in 
print, or they must be tinctured with something 
like the hue of uncrimsoned apostasy. The mem- 
bers of what is called the "Lake School" have 
teen more or less strongly marked with this re- 
prehensible change of political creed, but Coleridge 
the least of them. In truth he got nothing by any 
-change he ventured upon, and, what is more, he 
expected nothing ; the world is therefore boimd to 
say of him what cannot be said of his friends, if it 
be true, that it believes most cordially in his sin- 
cerity — and that his obliquity in politics was 
caused by his superficial knowledge of them, and 
his devotion of his high mental powers to different 
questions. Notwithstanding this, those who will 
not make a candid allowance for him, have ex- 
pressed wonder how the author of the " Consciones 
ad Populum" and the " Watchman," the friend 
of freedom, and one of the founders of the Pantis- 
ocracy, could afterwards regard the drivelling and 
chicanery of the pettifogging minister, Perceval, 
as glorious in Ikitish political history, and he 
himself as the " best and wisest" of ministers ! 
Although Coleridge has avowed his belief that he 
is not calculated for a popular writer, he has en- 



deavored to show that his own writings in the 
Morning Post were greatly influential on the pub- 
lic mind. Coleridge himself confesses that his 
Morning Post essays, though written in defence 
or furtherance of the measures of the government, 
added nothing to his fortune or reputation. How 
should they be effective, when their writer, who 
not long before addressed the people, and echoed 
from his compositions the principles of freedom 
and the rights of the people, now wrote with 
scorn of "mob-sycophants," and of the " half-witted 
vulgar?" It is a consolation to know that our 
author himself laments the waste of his manhood 
and intellect in this way. What might he not 
have given to the world that is enduring and ad- 
mirable, in the room of these misplaced political 
lucubrations I Who that has read his better works 
will not subscribe to this truth ? 

His translation of Schiller's Wallenstein may be 
denominated a free one, and is finely executed. 
It is impossible to give in the English language a 
more effective idea of the work of the great Ger- 
man dramatist. This version was made from a 
copy which the author himself afterwards revised 
and altered, and the translator subsequently re- 
published his version in a more correct form, with 
the additional passages and alterations of Schiller. 
This translation will long remain as the most 
effective which has been achieved of the works 
of the German dramatists in the British tongue. 

The censure which has been cast upon our poet 
for not writing more which is worthy of his repu- 
jtation, has been met by his enumeration of what 
he has done in all ways and times ; and, in truth, 
he has written a vast deal which has passed un- 
noticed, upon fleeting politics, and in newspaper 
columns, literary as well as political. To the 
world these last go for nothing, though their author 
calculates the thought and labor they cost him at 
full value. He concedes something, however, to 
this prevailing idea respecting him, when he says 
" On my own account, I may perhaps have had 
sufficient reason to lament my deficiency in self- 
control, and the neglect of concentrating my pow- 
ers to the realization of some permanent work. But 
to verse, rather than to prose, if to either, belongs 
' the voice of mourning,' for 
Keen pangs of love awakening as a babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart. 
And fears self-will'd that shunn'd the eye of hope. 
And hope that scarce could know itself from fear; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain. 
And genius given and knowledge won in vain, 
And all which I had cuH'd in wood-walks wild. 
And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all 
Commune with thee had open'd out — but flowers 
Strew'd on my corpse, and borne upon my bier, 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! 

S. T. C." 

In another part of his works, Coleridge says, 
speaking of what in poetry he had written, " as to 
myself, I have pubhshcd so little, and that little 

8 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



iK 



of so little importance, as to make it almost ludi- 
crous to mention my name at all." It is evident, 
therefore, that a sense of what he might have done 
jfor fame, and of the little he has done, is felt by 
the poet ; and yet, the little he has produced has 
among it gems of the purest lustre, the brilliancy 
of which time will not deaden until the universal 
voice of nature be heard no longer, and poetry 
perish beneath the dull load of life's hackneyed 
realities. 

The poem of " Christabel," Coleridge says, was 
composed in consequence of an agreement with 
Mr. Wordsworth, that they should mutually pro- 
duce specimens of poetry which should contain 
*' the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader, 
by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and 
the power of giving the interest of novelty by 
the modifying colors of imagination. The sudden 
1 charm, which accidents of light and shade, which 
I moon-light or sun-set diffused over a known and 
' familiar landscape, appeared to represent the prac- 
j ticability of combining both." Further he ob- 
' serves on this thought, "that a series of poems 
might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the 
incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, 
supernatural ; and the excellence to be aimed at 
was to consist in the interesting of the affections 
by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would 
naturally accompany such situations, supposing 
them real, etc. For the second class, subjects 
were to be chosen from ordinary life." Thus, it 
appears, originated the poems of the "Ancient 
Mariner," and "Christabel," by Coleridge, and 
the " Lyrical Ballads" of Wordsworth. 

Perhaps there is no English writer living who 
understood better than Coleridge the elements of 
poetry, and the way in which they may be best 
combined to produce certain impressions. His 
definitions of the merits and differences in style 
and poetic genius, between the earliest and latest 
writers of his country, are superior to those which 
any one else has it in his power to make ; for, in 
j truth, he long and deeply meditated upon them, 
and no one can be dissatisfied by the reasons he 
gives, and the examples he furnishes, to bear out 
his theories and opinions. These things he does 
as well or better in conversation than in writing. 
His conversational powers are indeed unrivalled, 
and it is to be feared that, to excel in these, he has 
sacrificed what are more durable ; and that he has 
resigned, for the pleasure of gratifying an attentive 
listening circle, and pleasing thereby his self-love 
by its applause, much that would have delighted 
the world. His flow of words, delivery, and va- 
riety of information, are so great, and he finds it 
so captivating to enchain his auditors to the car 
of his triumphant eloquence, that he has sacrificed 
to this gratification what might have sufficed to 
confer upon him a celebrity a thousand times more 
to be coveted by a spirit akin to his own. 
B 



It is equally creditable to the taste and judgment 
of Coleridge, that he was one of the first to point 
out, with temper and sound reasoning, the fallacy 
of a great portion of Wordsworth's poetic theory, 
namely, that which relates to low life. Words- 
worth contends that a proper poetic diction is a 
language taken from the mouths of men in gene- 
ral, in their natural conversation under the influ- 
ence of natural feelings. Coleridge wisely asserts, 
that philosophers are the authors of the best parts 
of language, not clowns ; and that Milton's lan- 
guage is more that of real life than the language 
of a cottager. This subject he has most ably 
treated in chapter 17 of his BiograpMa Literaria. 
Two years after he had abandoned the Morning 
Post, he set off for Malta, where he most unex- 
pectedly arrived on a visit to his friend Dr. Stodart, 
then king's advocate in that island, and was in- 
troduced by him to the Governor, Sir Alexander 
Ball, who appointed him his secretary. He re- 
mained in the island fulfilling the duties of his 
situation, for which he seems to have been but 
indifferently qualified, a very short period. One 
advantage, however, he derived from his official 
employ : that of the pension granted by Govern- 
ment to those who have served in similar situa- 
tions. On his way home he visited Italy ; entered 
Rome, and examined its host of ancient and mod- 
ern curiosities, and added fresh matter for thought 
to his rapidly accumulating store of ideas. Of 
this visit he gives several anecdotes ; among them 
one respecting the horns of Moses on Michael 
Angelo's celebrated statue of that lawgiver, intend- 
ed to elucidate the character of Frenchmen. Cole- 
ridge has been all his fife a hater of France and 
Frenchmen, arising from his belief in their being 
completely destitute of moral or poetical feeling. 
A Prussian, who was with him while looking upon 
the statue, observed that a Frenchman was the only 
animal, " in the human shape, that by no possi- 
bility can lift itself up to religion or, poetry." A 
foolish and untrue remark on the countrymen of 
Fenelon and Pascal, of Massillon and Corneille. 
Just then, however, two French officers of rank 
happened to enter the church, and the Goth from 
the Elbe remarked that, the first things they would 
notice would be the "horns and beard" (upon which 
the Prussian and Coleridge had just been rearing 
theories and quoting history), and that the associ- 
ations the Frenchmen would connect with them 
" would be those of a he-goat and a cuckold." It 
happened that the Prus-Goth was right : the offi- 
cers did pass some such joke upon the figure. 
Hence, by inference, would the poet have his 
readers deduce the character of a people, whose 
literature, science, and civilization are perhaps 
only not the very first in the world. 

Another instance of his fixbd and absurd dislike 
of every thing French, occurred during the de- 
livery of a course of Lectures on Poetry, at the 

9 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



Royal Institution, in the spring of 1808 ; in one 
of which he astonished his auditory by thanking 
his Maker, in the most serious manner, for so or- 
dering events, that he was totally ignorant of a 
single word of " that frightful jargon, the French 
language !" And yet, notwithstanding this public 
avowal of his entire ignorance of the language, 
Mr. C. is said to have been in the habit, while 
conversing with his friends, of expressing the ut- 
most contempt for the literature of that country ! 
Whelmed in the wild mazes of metaphysics, 
and for ever mingling its speculations with all he 
does or says, Coleridge has of late produced nothing 
equal to the power of his pen. A few verses in an 
annual, or a sonnet in a magazine, are the utmost 
of his efforts. He resides at Hampstead, in the 
house of a friend having a good garden, where he 
walks for hours together enwrapped in visions of 
new theories of theology, or upon the most abstruse 
of meditations. He goes into the world at times, to 
the social dinner-party, where he gratifies his self- 
love by pouring out the stores of his mind in con- 
versation to admiring listeners. Were he not apt 
to be too profound, he would make an excellent 
talker, or rather un grand causeur for a second 
Madame de Sevigne, if such an accomplished fe- 
male is to be found in the nineteenth century, 
either in England or France. The fluency of 
Coleridge's language, the light he throws upon 
his subjects, and the pleasure he feels in conmiu- 
nicating his ideas, and his knowledge, innate or 
acquired, are equally remarkable to the stranger. 
He has been accused of indolence, not perhaps 
with reason: the misdirection of his distinguished 
talents would be a better explanation of that for 
which he has been blamable. He attempts to 
justify himself on the score of quantity, by assert- 
ing that some of his best things were published in 
newspapers. The world differs with him upon 



this question, and always will do so, when it is 
recollected what he has had the power to effect- 
It will not forgive him for writing upon party, and 
in support of principles that even now are pretty 
nearly exploded, " what was meant for mankind." 
Coleridge mistook his walk wh'cn he set up for a 
politician, and it is to be feared the public have a 
great deal to regret on account of it. He will not 
be known hereafter by his Morning Post articles, 
but by his verses. Whatever pains his political 
papers may have cost him, and from his own ac- 
count they were laboriously composed, they will 
avail him nothing with posterity. The verses of 
Coleridge give him his claim to lasting celebrity, 
and it is in vain that he would have the world 
think otherwise. He says, " Would that the cri- 
terion of a scholar's utility were the number and 
moral value of the truths which he has been tho 
means of throwing into the general circulation, or 
the number and value of the minds whom, by his 
conversation or letters, he has excited into activity, 
and supplied with the germs of their after-growth ! 
A distinguished rank might not indeed then be 
awarded to my exertions, but I should dare look 
forward to an honorable acquittal." 

In temper and disposition Coleridge is kind and 
amiable. His person is bulky and his physiog- 
nomy is heavy, but his eye is remarkably fine ; 
and neither envy nor imcharitableness have 
made any successful impression in attacking his 
moral character. His family have long resided 
with Mr. Southey's in the north of England ; the 
narrow pecuniary circumstances of our poet are 
assigned as the reason. It is ardently desired 
by all lovers of the Muses, that the author of the 
"Ancient Mariner," and of "Genevieve," may 
see hfe protracted to a green old age, and yet 
produce works which may rival those of his de- 
parted years. 

10 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



i^ffiw^m ®^ (©(im®mi®©m 



SuSientle ^otmu. 



PREFACE. 



Compositions resembling those here collected are 
not unfrequently condemned for their querulous 
Egotism. But Egotism is to be condenmed then only 
when it offends against time and place, as in a His- 
tory or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody 
or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle 
for being round. Why then write Sonnets or Mono- 
dies ? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps 
nothing else could. After the more violent emotions 
of Sorrow, the mind demands amusement, and can 
find it in employment alone : but, full of its late suf- 
ferings, it can endure no employment not in some 
measure connected with them. Forcibly to turn 
away our attention to general subjects is a painful 
and most often an unavailing effort 

I But O ! how grateful to a wounded heart 

I The tale of Misery to impart — 

From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow, 
Aad raise esteem upon the base of Woe ! 

I ShatD. 

I The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to 
I describe our own sorrows ; in the endeavor to de- 
scribe them, intellectual activity is exerted ; and 
from intellectual activity there results a pleasure, 
I which is gradually associated, and mingles as a cor- 
' rective, with the painful subject of the description. 
\ " True ! " (it may be answered) " but how are the 
Public interested in your sorrows or your Descrip- 
tion ? " We are for ever attributing personal Unities 
to imaginary Aggregates. What is the Public, but a 
term for a number of scattered individuals ? of whom 
as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have 
experienced the same or similar. 

Holy be the lay 
Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way. 

If I could judge of others by myself, I should not 
' hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting passages 
I are those in which the Author develops his own 
feelings ? The sweet voice of Cona* never sounds 
[ so sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; and I should 
I almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who 
could read the opening of the third book of the Para- 
dise Lost without peculiar emotion. By a Law of our 
Nature, he, who labors under a strong feeling, is 



impelled to seek for sympathy ; but a Poet's feelings 
are all strong. Quicquid amet valde amat. Akenside 
therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy when 
he classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same 
effects : 

Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue 
Would toach to others' bosoms, what so charms 
Their own. 

Pleasures of Imagination. 

There is one species of Egotism which is truly 
disgusting ; not that which leads us to communicate 
our feelings to others but that which would reduce 
the feelings of others to an identity with our own. 
The Atheist, who exclaims " pshaw ! " when he 
glances his eye on the praises of Deity, is an Egotist : 
an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of Love- 
verses, is an Egotist: and the sleek Favorites of 
Fortime are Egotists, when they condemn all " mel- 
ancholy, discontented " verses. Surely, it would be 
candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases 
ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may 
not be others, to whom it is well calculated to give 
an innocent pleasure. 

I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I 
hope, remember, that these Poems on various sub- 
jects, which he reads at one time and under the in- 
fluence of one set of feelings, were written at differ- 
ent times and prompted by very different feelings ; 
and therefore that the supposed inferiority of one 
Poem to another may sometimes be owing to the 
temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it. 



* Ossian. 



My poems have been rightly charged vdth a pro- 
fusion of double-epithets, and a general turgidness. 
I have pruned the double-epithets, with no sparing 
hand ; and used my best efforts to tame the swell 
and glitter both of thought and diction.* This latter 



* Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to 
express some degree of surprise, that after having run the 
critical gauntlet for a certain class of faults, which I had, viz. 
a too ornate and elaborately poetic diction, and nothing hav- 
ing come before the judgment-seat of the Reviewers during 
the long interval, I should for at least seventeen years, quarter 
after quarter, have been placed by them in the foremost rank 
of the proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and 
ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz. bald and prosaic lan- 
guage, and an affected simplicity both of matter and manner 
— faults which assuredly did not enter into the character of 
my compositions.— iiterarj^ Life, i. 51. Published 1817. 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



fault however had insinuated itself into my Religious 
Musings with such intricacy of union, that some- 
times I have omitted to disentangle the weed from 
the fear of snapping the flower. A third and heavier 
accusation has been brought against me, that of ob- 
scurity ; but not, I think, with equal justice. An 
Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim 
and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unap- 
propriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in 
allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that imper- 
sonates high and abstract truths, like Collins's Ode 
on the poetical character, claims not to be popular — 
but should be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency 
is in the Reader. But this is a charge which every 
poet, whose imagination is warm and rapid, must 
expect from his contemporaries. Milton did not 
escape it ; and it was adduced with virulence against 
Gray and Collins. We now hear no more of it : 
not that their poems are better understood at present, 
than they were at their first publication ; but their 
fame is established ; and a critic would accuse him- 
self of frigidity or inattention, who should profess 
not to understand them. But a living writer is yet 
suhjudice; and if we cannot follow his conceptions 
or enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to our 
pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring 
above us. If any man expect from my poems the 
same easiness of style which he admires in a drink- 
ing-song, for him I have not written. Intelligibilia, 
non intellectum adfero. 

I expect neither profit nor general fame by my 
writings ; and I consider myself as having been 
amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to rae 
its own " exceeding great reward : " it has soothed 
my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my en- 
joyments ; it has endeared solitude : and it has given 
me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and 
the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me. 

S. T. C. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



GENEVIEVE. 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 
In beauty's light you glide along : 
Your eye is like the star of eve, 
And sweet your voice, as seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 
This heart with passion soft to glow : 
Within your soul a voice there lives ! 
It bids you hear the tale of woe. 
When sinking low the sufferer wan 
Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save, 
Fair, as the bosom of the swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I 've seen your breast with pity heave, 
And iheref&re love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 



SONNET. 

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. 

Mild Splendor of the various-vested Night ! 
Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! 
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ; 



And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud 
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky. 
Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
Now hid behind the dragon- wing'd Despair . 
But soon emerging in her radiant might, 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 



TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

On the wide level of a mountain's head 
(I knew not where, but 't was some faery place 
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread. 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 

A sister and a brother ! 

This far outstript the other; 
Yet ever runs she with reverted face, 
And looks and listens for the boy behind : 

For he, alas ! is blind ! 
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, 
And knows not whether he be first or last. 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
CHATTERTON. 

WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, 
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, ' 
Babes, Children, Youths and Men, 

Night following night for threescore years and ten 
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 

Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away ! 

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display 

For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of state ! 

Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom ; 

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 

{That all bestowing, this withholding all) 

Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome 

Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call. 

Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home I 

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect 
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. 
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven, 
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! 
Thou ! O vain word ! thou dwell'st not with the clod! 
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn 
(Beheve it, O my soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 

Yet oft, perforce ('t is suffering Nature's call,) 

1 weep, that heaven-bom Genius so shall fall ; 
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl. 

Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view 

Thy corse of livid hue ; 
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh. 
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? 

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ? 
Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade 
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid. 

And o'er her darling dead 

Pity hopeless hung her head, 
While " 'raid the pelting of that merciless storm," 
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form ! 

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame. 

From vales where Avon winds, the Minstrel* came. 

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along, 

He meditates the future song, 
How dauntless ^lla fray'd the Dacian foe ; 

And while the numbers flowing strong 

In eddies whirl, in surges throng, 
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe, 
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow. 

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame. 
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare 
More than the light of outward day shines there, 
A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 
Wings grow within him ; and he soars above 
Or Bard's, or Minstrel's lay of war or love. 
Friend to the friendless, to the Suflferer health, 
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ; 
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 
And young and old shall now see happy days. 
On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise. 
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes ; 
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel. 
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child ! 
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom. 
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume ! 
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ; 
From the hard world brief respite could they win — 
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd 

within ! 
Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face ? 
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps, I view. 
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew, 
And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh I 

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, 

AVhen Care, of wither'd brow, 
Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power: 
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl. 
When near thee stood Aflfection meek 
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek,) 
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; 
Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view, 
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day. 
Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay ; 
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear. 
And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear ; 

See, see her breast's convulsive throe. 
Her silent agony of woe ! 
Ah ! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand ! 
And thou hadst dash'd it, at her soft command. 



* Avon, a m&c near Bristol ; the birth-place of Chatterton. 



But that Despair and Indignation rose, 
And told again the story of thy woes ; 
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ; 
The dread dependence on the low-born mind ; 
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart, 
Neglect, and grirming Scorn, and Want combined ! 
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain 
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing 



Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, 
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep ! 
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave. 
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve. 
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, 
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, 
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide 
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide. 
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour. 
When most the big soul feels the mastering power, 
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, 
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, 
With wild unequal steps he pass'd along. 
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves 
below. 

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 

Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too 

late. 
Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ; 
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing. 
Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring ; 
And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart 
The last pale Hope that shiver'd at my heart ! 

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shall 

dwell 
On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh 
The shame and anguish of the evil day, 
Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell. 
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray ; 
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay. 
The wizard Passions weave a holy spell ! 

O Chatterton ! that thou wert yet alive ! 
Sure thou wouldst spread the canvas to the gale. 
And love with us the tinkling team to drive 
O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; 
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. 
Hanging, enraptured, on thy stately song ! 
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 
All deftly mask'd, as hoar Antiquity. 

Alas vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood 
Of Woe self solaced in her dreamy mood ! 
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream. 
Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream , 
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, 
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee. 
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 
And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind, 
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 
13 



P 
i 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 



The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of 
beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a 
small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a 
wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlor. 
The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on its sides are 
innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his 
own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their 
childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter. 

To this place the Author conducted a party of young Ladies, 
during the Summer months of the year 1793 ; one of whom, 
of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colorless yet 
clear, was proclaimed the Faery Q.ueen. On which occasion 
the following irregular Ode was written. 



I. 

Whom the untaught Shepherds call 

Pixies in their madrigal, 
Fancy's children, here we dwell : 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
Here the wren of softest note 

Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
Here the blackbird strains his throat ; 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 

IL 

When fades the moon all shadowy-pale, 
And scuds the cloud before the gale. 
Ere Mom with living gems bedight 
Purples the East with streaky light, 
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews 
Clad in robes of rainbow hues : 
Or sport amid the rosy gleam. 
Soothed by the distant-tinkling team, 
While lusty Labor scouting sorrow 
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow, 
Who jogs the accustom'd road along, 
And paces cheery to her cheering song. 

HL 

But not our filmy pinion 
We scorch amid the blaze of day. 
When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion 
Flashes the fervid ray. 
Aye from the sultry heat 
We to the cave retreat 
O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined 
With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age : 
Round them their mantle green the ivies bind, 
Beneath whose foliage pale, 
Fann'd by the unfrequent gale, 
We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 

IV. 

Thither, while the murmuring throng 
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song. 
By Indolence and Fancy brought, 
A youthful Bard, " unknown to Fame," 
Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, 
And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh. 
Gazing with tearful eye. 
As roimd our sandy grot appear 
Many a rudely-sculptured name 
To pensive Memory dear ! 
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue, 
We glance before his view : 



O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed, 
And twine our faery garlands rotmd liis head. 



V. 

When Evening's dusky car, 

Crown'd wdth her dewy star, 
Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight, 

On leaves of aspen trees 

We tremble to the breeze, 
Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 

Or, haply, at the visionary hour, 
Along our wildly-bower'd sequester'd walk, 
We hsten to the enamour'd rustic's talk ; 
Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, 
Where yoimg-eyed Loves have built their turtle 

nest; 
Or guide of soul-subduing power 
The electric flash, that from the melting eye 
Darts the fond question and the soft reply. 



VL 

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
Or, silent-sandall'd, pay our defter court 
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport 
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
Then Avith quaint music hymn the parting gleam 
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
Or where his waves with loud unquiet song 
Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froth along ; 
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest. 
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 



vn. 

Hence, thou lingerer. Light! 
Eve saddens into Night 
Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view 
The sombre hours, that roiuid thee stand 
With downcast eyes (a duteous band!) 
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 
Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 
Thy power the Pixies own. 
When round thy raven brow 
Heaven's lucent roses glow. 
And clouds, in watery colors drest. 
Float i-n light drapery o'er thy sable vest : 
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day, 
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam : 
For 'mid the quivering light 't is ours to play, 
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 

VIII. 

Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell 
Where the blameless Pixies dwell : 
But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaim'd our Faery 
Queen, 
With what obeisance meet 
Thy presence shall we greet ? 
For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 
Graceful Ease in artless stole. 
And white-robed Purity of soul. 
With Honor's softer mien ; 
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair. 
And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair. 

Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view, 
As snow-drop wet with dew. 
14 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



IX. 

Unboastful maid ! though now the Lily pale 

Transparent grace thy beauties meek ; 
Yet ere again along the empurpling vale, 
The purpUng vale and elfin-haunted grove, 
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws, 

We '11 tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 
And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose 
Extract a blush for love ! 



THE RAVEN. 

A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS 
LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 

Underneath a huge oak tree 
There was, of swine, a huge company. 
That grunted as they crunch'd the mast : 
For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 
Next came a raven, that liked not such folly : 
He belong'd, they did say, to the witch Melancholy ! 
Blacker was he than blackest jet, 
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet 
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it straight 
By the side of a river both deep and great 
Where then did the Raven go ? ; 
He went high and low. 
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. 
Many Autumns, many Springs 
Travell'd he with wandering wings : 
Many Summers, many Winters — 
I can't tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back, and with him a She, 
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise. 
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 
He 'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke, 
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own 

oak. 
His young ones were kill'd; for they could not 

depart, 
And tlieir mother did die of a broken heart 

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever ; 
And they floated it down on the course of the river. 
They saw'd it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
And with this tree and others they made a good ship, 
The ship it was launch'd ; but in sight of the land 
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could vidth- 

stand. 
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast : 
The old Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to 

the blast 

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls- 
See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 

Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet. 
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet. 
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat : 

They had taken his all, and Revenge was sweet ! 



ABSENCE. 

A FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR JESUS 
COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

Where graced with many a classic spoil 

Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 

I haste to urge the learned toil 

That sternly chides my lovelorn song : 

Ah me ! too mindful of the days 

Illumed by Passion's orient rays. 

When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 

Em-ich'd me with the best of wealth. 

Ah fair delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 
But cease, fond heart ! this bootless moan : 
Those hours on rapid pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crown'd, 
And scatter lovelier roses round. 

The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On heedless eyes may pour the day : 
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires, 
Endears her renovated ray. 
What though she leaves the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When she relumes her lovely light. 
We bless the wanderer of the night 



LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 

THOU, wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more 
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day. 

With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 

Ah ! rather bid the perish'd pleasures move, 

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 

Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring, 

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim 

bower 
She leap'd, awaken'd by the pattering shower. 
Now sheds the sinldng Sun a deeper gleam, 
Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy poet's dream ! 
With fairy wand O bid the Maid arise, 
Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 
As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 

1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestow'd ; 
When as she twined a laurel round my brow. 
And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow. 
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart. 
And every nerve confess'd th' electric dart 

dear deceit ! I see the Maiden rise, 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ! 
When first the lark, high soaring, swells his throat. 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the wild note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustom'd lawn, 
I mark her glancing 'mid the gleam of dawn. 
When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weep<» 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 

15 



6 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Amid the paiy radiance soft and sad, 
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
With lier I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice to float, 
Lone- whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 

Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 
Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, 
Wliere rich snows blossom on the myrtle trees. 
Or with fond languishment around my fair 
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, 
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given, 
Form'd by the wondrous alchemy of heaven ! 
No fairer maid does Love's wide empire know, 
No fairer maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ; 
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
■ Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
She speaks ! and hark that passion-warbled song — 
Still, I'ancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong. 
As sweet as when that voice wdth rapturous falls 
Shall wake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's halls ! 

O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod, 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god ! 
A flower-entangled arbor I would seem. 
To shield my Love from noontide's sultry beam : 
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My love might weave gay garlands for her brows. 
When twilight stole across the fading vale, 
To fan my love I 'd be the Evening Gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On Seraph wing I 'd float a Dream by night, 
To soothe my Love with shadows of delight :— • 
Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
And gaze upon her vsdth a thousand eyes ! 

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air, 
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, 
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
So toss'd by storms along Life's wildering way. 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 
When by my native brook I wont to rove. 
While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love. 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek ! 
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dresim! 
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek. 
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay. 
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellow'd ray, 
Wliere Love a crown of thornless Roses wears, 
Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ, 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ! 



No more your sky-larks melting from flie sight 
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight- 
No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song. 
That soars on Morning's vdngs your vales among. 

Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye ye leave. 
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve ! 
Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd blaze, 
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze. 
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, 
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 



THE ROSE. 



As late each flower that sweetest blows 
I pluck'd, the Garden's pride ! 
Within the petals of a Rose 
A sleeping Love I spied. 

Around his brows a beamy wreath 
Of many a lucent hue ; 
All purple, glow'd his cheek, beneath 
Inebriate with dew. 

I softly seized the unguarded Power, 
Nor scared his balmy rest ; 
And placed him, caged within the flower, 
On spotless Sara's breast. 

But when unweeting of the guile 
Awoke the prisoner sweet, 
He struggled to escape awhile. 
And stamp'd his faery feet. 

Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight 
Subdued the impatient boy ! 
He gazed ! he thrill'd wdth deep delight ! 
Then clapp'd his wings for joy. 

<• And O ! he cried — " Of magic kind 
What charm this Throne endear ! 
Some other Love let Venus find^— 
I '11 fix my empire here." 



THE KISS. 



One kiss, dear Maid ! I said and sigh'd- 
Your scorn the littie boon denied. 
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ? 
Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale, 
The Spirit of the Western Gale, 
At Morning's break, at Evening's closo 
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose. 
And hovers o'er the iminjured bloom 
Sighing back the soft perfume. 
Vigor to the Zephyr's wing 
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling; 
16 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



And He the glitter of the Dew 
Scatters on the Rose's hue. 
Bashful, lo ! she bends her head, 
And darts a blush of deeper red ! 

Too well those lovely lips disclose 
The triumphs of the opening Rose ; 
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove 
As passive to the breath of Love. 
In tender accents, faint and low. 
Well-pleased I hear the whisper'd " No ! " 
The whisper'd " No " — ^how little meant ! 
Sweet falsehood that endears consent ! 
For on those lovely lips the while 
Dawns the soft-relenting smile, 
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy 
The gentle violence of Joy. 



TO A YOUNG ASS. 

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. 

Poor little foal of an oppressed race ! 

I love the languid patience of thy face : 

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 

And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. 

But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay 'd. 

That never thou dost sport along the glade ? 

And (most unlike the nature of things young) 

That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ? 

Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, 

Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate ? 

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 

" Which patient merit of the unworthy takes ?" 

Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain 

To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain ? 

And truly, very piteous is her lot — 

Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot 

Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen. 

While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! 

Poor Ass ! thy master should have learnt to show 

Pity — best taught by fellowship of woe ! 

For much I fear me that he lives like thee, 

Half famish'd in a land of luxury ! 

How askingly its footsteps hither bend ? 

It seems to say, " And have I then one friend ?" 

Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised forlorn ! 

I hail thee brother — spite of the fool's scorn ! 

And fain would take thee with me, in the dell 

Of peace and mild equality to dwell. 

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride, 

And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! 

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! 

Yea ! and more musically sweet to me 

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, 

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest 

The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast ! 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 

Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found ? 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies, 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
C 



From the pomp of sceptred state, 
From the rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottaged vale She dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ' 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honor's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
And, conscious of the past employ, 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 



THE SIGH. 



When Youth his faery reign began 
Ere sorrow had proclaim'd me man ; 
While Peace the present hour beguiled. 
And all the lovely prospect smiled ; 
Then, Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee 
I heaved the painless Sigh for thee. 

And when, along the waves of woe. 
My harass'd heart was doom'd to know 
The frantic burst of outrage keen, 
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen ; 
Then shipwreck'd on life's stormy sea, 
I heaved an anguish'd Sigh for thee! 

But soon reflection's power impress'd 
A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
And sickly hope with waning eye 
Was well content to droop and die : 
I yielded to the stern decree. 
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee ! 

And though in distant climes to roam, 
A wanderer from my native home, 
I fain would soothe the sense of Care 
And lull to sleep the Joys that were ! 
Thy Image may not banish'd be — 
Still, Mary ! still I sigh for thee. 
June, 1794. 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, 
Death came with friendly care ; 

The opening bud to Heaven convey'd, 
And bade it blossom there. 



LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS 
ROSS. 

FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE " MAN OF ROSS." 

Richer than miser o'er his countless hoards, 

Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords, 

Here dwelt the man of Ptoss ! O Traveller, hear ! 

Departed merit claims a reverent tear. 

Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health. 

With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth ; 

He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of 

praise. 
He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze, 
Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay. 
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray. 
Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass, 
I Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 

17 



8 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul. 
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. 
But if, like me, through Ufe's distressful scene, 
Lonely and sad, thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, 
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought ; 
Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt, 
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt ! 



LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A 
VILLAGE. 

Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wander- 
ing near, 
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours 
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 
My languid hand shall vvrreath thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph. Solitude ; 
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well. 
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell ! 
Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supply 
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks. 
Released from school, their little hearts at rest. 
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, 
Or, starting, pauses vdth hope-mingled dread 
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread : 
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command. 
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand. 
Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls 
The faded form of past delight recalls. 
What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, 
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 



LINES ON A FRIEND, 

WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUM- 
NIOUS REPORTS. 

Edmund ! thy grave with aching eye I scan. 

And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast — Man! 

'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth, 

If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth, 

We force to start amid her feign'd caress 

Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 

A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear, 

And on we go in heaviness and fear ! 

But if bur fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, 

The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground 

And mingled forms of Misery rise around : 

Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast. 

That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 



Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side. 

And loud lewd Mirth, to anguish close allied : 

Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain. 

Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain. 

Rest, injured shade ! Shall Slander squatting near 

Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear ? 

"Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 

In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 

Thine all that cheer the moment as it flies. 

The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies. 

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew, 

And in thy heart they wither'd ! Such chill dew 

Wan indolence on each young blossom shed ; 

And Vanity her filmy net-work spread, 

With eye that roll'd around, in asking gaze. 

And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise. 

Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well ! 

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? 

Rest, injur'd shade ! the poor man's grateful prayer 

On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall bear. 

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, 

And sit me down upon its recent grass, 

With introverted eye I contemplate 

SimiUtude of soul, perhaps of — Fate ! 

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd 

Energic Reason and a shaping mind. 

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part. 

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 

Sloth-jaundic'd all ! and from my graspless hand 

Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass 

sand. 
I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze. 

Is this piled earth our being's passless mound? 
Tell me, cold grave ! is Death with poppies crown'd ? 
Tired sentinel ! 'mid fitful starts I nod. 
And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON 
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

Much on my early youth I love to dwell. 
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell. 
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale ! 
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. 
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 
In broken radiance on the wavy stream. 
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 
Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo!* o'er thy tomb 
Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near. 
Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear ; 
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye, 
And siiflfering Nature wept that one should die !t 

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast. 
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : 
When slumbering Freedom roused with high disdain. 
With giant ftiry burst her triple chain ! 



* Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Isl- 
ands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the 
small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard.— See KeaU'g 
Account. 

t Southey's Retrospect. 

18 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd ; 
Her banners, hke a midnight meteor, flow'd ; 
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies ! 
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes! 
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire, 
And swept with wilder hand the Alcaean lyre : 
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance. 
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France ! 

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, 
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade. 
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid. 
And O ! if eyes whose holy glances roll, 
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 
If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien 
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen 
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air. 
If these demand the impassion'd poet's care — 
If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined, 
The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign 
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine. 
Nor, Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse — 
*Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues ; 
No purple bloom the child of nature brings 
From Flattery's night-shade ; as he feels, he singa. 
September, 1792. 



SONNET. 



Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
If his weak harp at times, or lonely lyre 
He struck with desultory hand, and drew 
Some soften'd tones to Nature not untrue. 

Bowles. 



My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles ! for those soft 

strains. 
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring ! 
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 
T^hrough youth's gay prime and thornless path 

went : 
And when the mightier throes of man began, 
And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man ! 
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 
A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd 
I To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd ; 
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood 
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind. 
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 
Moved on the darkness of the unform'd deep. 



Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul 
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure I 
That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy ! 



SONNET. 



SONNET. 



As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, 

With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 

I saw the sauited form of Freedom rise : 

She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale — 

" Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name. 

Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice 

Thou badst Oppression's hirehng crew rejoice. 

Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame. 

Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl ! 

The stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure 



Though roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude 
Have driven our Priest over the ocean swell : 
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ; 
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ! 
For lo ! Religion at his strong behest 
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell. 
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest. 
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ; 
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail, 
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly : 
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won, 
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil 
To smile with fondness on her gazing son ! 



SONNET. 

When British Freedom for a happier land 

Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with afl^right, 

Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight 

Sublime of hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand 

(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame) 

A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine. 

And at her altar pour the stream divine 

Of immatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name 

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 

With blessings heavenward breathed. And when 

the doom 
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 
Thy light shall shine : as sunk, beneath the West, 
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze. 
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 



SONNET. 

It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed 

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 

My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour. 

Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed: 

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade ; 

Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade 

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 

Now patriot rage and indignation high 

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams 

dance 
Meaning of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry ! 
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored. 
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword. 



SONNET. 



O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there. 
As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd ! 
Ah me ! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword 
Fallen Kosciusko! Through the burthen'd air 
19 



10 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell 

Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell 

The dirge of murder'd Hope ! while Freedom pale 

Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, 

As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 

Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear 

That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek 

Fit channel found ; and she had drain'd the bowl 

In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul ! 



SONNET. 



As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird 
Swells the full chorus with a generous song: 
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares. 
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight ; 
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares : 
Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice 
Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice. 
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might : 
For lo ! the morning struggles into day. 
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the 
ray! 



SONNET. 



Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, 
Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond dream 
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day 
I lay me down and think of happier years ; 
Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray. 
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. 
O pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone ! 
Could I recall you ! — But that thought is vain. 
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
To lure the fleet- wing'd travellers back again : 
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream. 



SONNET. 



Pale Roamer through the Night; thou poor Forlorn! 
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, 
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn! 
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride, 
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress: 
Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride : 
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness! 
O! I am sad to think, that there should be 
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place 
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, 
And force from Famine the caress of Love ; 
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace. 
He, the great Comforter that rules above ! 



SONNET. 

Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs 
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares 
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. 
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest 
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment — use 
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews 
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. 
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child : 
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess. 
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. 
He did not so, the Galilaean mild. 
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors. 
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome 
Sores! 



SONNET. 



Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress 
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile. 
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while 
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? 
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale. 
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale 
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? 
Faint was that Hope, and rayless! — Yet 'twas fair 
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest: 
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, 
And nursed it with an agony of Care, 
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir 
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast! 



SONNET. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF THE " ROBBERS." 

Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die. 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry — 
Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout 
Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene! 
Ah Bai-d tremendous in sublimity! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! 
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy! 



LINES 



COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF 
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. 

With many a pause and oft-reverted eye 
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near 
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody : 
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. 
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 
That on green plots o'er precipices browse : 
From the forced fissures of the naked rock 
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs 
20 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



11 



('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) 
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 
I rest : — and now have gain'd the topmost site. 
Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 
My gaze ! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me, 
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea ! 
Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear : 
Enchanting spot ! O were my Sara here ! 



LINES 



IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. 

Peace ! that on a lilied bank dost love 
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree, 

1 would, that from the pinions of thy Dove 
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be ! 
For O ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee. 

And fain to her some soothing song would write, 
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy. 
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light, 
But broke my plighted word — ah! false and recreant 
wight! 

Last night as I my weary head did pillow 
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross' d, 
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself Mdth willow. 
As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost. 
"From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal 

boast, 
Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ; 
But leave me with the matin hour, at most ! 
As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray, 
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey." 

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought. 
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween : 
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught — 
" Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien ! " 
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed 
The morning shot lier dewy glances keen, 
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 
" Now, Bard ! I '11 work thee woe ! " the laughing 
Elfin said. 

Sleep, softly-breathing God ! his downy wing 
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string. 
With pathless woxmd it pierced him to the heart. 
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart ? 
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ? 
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start 
(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) 
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his 
sweet trance I 

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ; 

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam : 

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine ! 

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem. 

He sprang from Heaven ! Such joys with Sleep did 

'bide. 
That I the living Image of my Dream 
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd — 
" O ! how shall 1 behold my Love at eventide ! " 



IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. 

The stream with languid murmur creeps, 

In Lumin's flowery vale : 
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps. 

Slow-waving to the gale. 

" Cease, restless gale ! " it seems to say, 
" Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 

The honors of my vernal day 
On rapid wing are flying. 

" To-morrow shall the Traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming : 

His searching eye shall vainly roam 
The dreary vale of Lumin." 

With eager gaze and wetted cheek 
My wonted haunts along, 

Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek 
The Youth of simplest song. 

But I along the breeze shall roll 
The voice of feeble power ; 

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, 
In Slumber's nightly hour. 



THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA 

How long will ye round me be swelling, 

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ? 
Not always in Caves was my dwelling. 

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. 
Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma 

In the steps of my beauty I stray'd ; 
The Warriors beheld Ninathoma, 

And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid ! 

A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted ! 

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest — 
For lovely appear the departed 

When they visit the dreams of my rest ! 
But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, 

Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight — 
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean ! 

To howl through my Cavern by Night 



IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. 

If, while my passion I impart. 
You deem my words untrue, 

O place your hand upon my heart — 
Feel how it throbs for you ! 

Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim. 

In pity to your lover ! 
That thrilling touch would aid the flame 

It wishes to discover. 



TO AN INFANT. 

Ah cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life ! 
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife : 
Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, 
And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry ! 
21 



12 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, 
Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know ! 
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; 
Ahke the Good, the 111 offend thy sight. 
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms 
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms, 
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest ! 
Man's breathing Miniature ! thou makest me sigh- 
A Babe art thou — and such a thing am I ! 
To anger rapid and as soon appeased. 
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, 
Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow, 
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar 
glow! 

O thou that rearest with celestial aim 

The future Seraph in my mortal frame, 

Thrice-holy Faith ! whatever thorns 1 meet 

As on I totter with unpractised feet. 

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 

Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy ! 



LINES 



WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, 
SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER 
FROM BRISTOL. 



Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better 

Received from absent friend by way of Letter. 

For what so sweet can labor'd lays impart 

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart? 

^non. 



Nor travels my meandering eye 
The starry wilderness on high ; 

Nor now with curious sight 
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass. 
Move with " green radiance " through the 

An emerald of light 

ever present to my view ! 
My wafted spirit is vdth you. 

And soothes your boding fears : 

1 see you all oppress'd with gloom 
Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 

Ah me ! You are in tears ! 

Beloved Woman ! did you fly 

Chill'd Friendship's dark disUking eye, 

Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
With cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper sore with tenderness. 

When aches the void within. 

But why with sable wand unbless'd 
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 

Dim-visaged shapes of Dread ? 
Untenanting its beauteous clay 
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way, 

And hovers round my head ! 

I felt it prompt the tender Dream, 
When slowly sunk the day's last gleam ; 



You roused each gentler sense 
As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, 
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume 

With viewless influence. 

And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans 
Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 

In bold ambitious sweep. 
The onward-surging tides supply 
The silence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the charmell'd Isle* 
(Where stands one solitary pile 

Unslated by the blast) 
The Watch-fire, like a sullen star 
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar 

Rude cradled on the mast 



Even there — beneath that light-house tower- 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere Peace with Sara came. 
Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
To count the echoings of my feet. 

And watch the storm-vex'd flame. 

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit 
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit. 

And listen to the roar : 
When Mountain Surges bellowing deep 
With an uncouth monster leap 

Plunged foaming on the shore. 

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark 
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark; 

Her vain distress-guns hear ; 
And when a second sheet of light 
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night— 

To see no Vessel there ! 

But Fancy now more gaily sings : 
Or if awhile she droop her wings, 

As sky-larks 'mid the com, 
On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest 

Nods, till returning morn. 

O mark those smiling tears, that swell 
The open'd Rose ! From heaven they fell, 

And with the sun-beam blend. 
Bless'd visitations from above. 
Such are the tender woes of Love 

Fostering the heart, they bend ! 

When stormy Midnight howling round 
Beats on our roof with clattering sound. 

To me your arms you '11 stretch : 
Great God ! you '11 say — To us so kind, 
O shelter from this loud bleak wind 

The houseless, friendless wretch! 

The tears that tremble down your cheek, 
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 



* The Holmes, in the Biistol Channel. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



13 



In Pity's dew divine; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
Shall make your rising bosom feel 

The answering swell of mine ! 

How oft, my Love ! with shapings sweet 
I paint the moment we shall meet ! 

With eager speed I dart — 
I seize you in the vacant air, 
And fancy, with a Husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! 

'T is said, on Summer's evening hour 
Flashes the golden-color'd flower 

A fair electric flame : 
And so shall flash my love-charged eye 
When all the heart's big ecstasy 

Shoots rapid through the frame ! 



LINES 

TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY 

j LETTER. 

AwAY, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh, 
The peevish ofl^spring of a sickly hour ! 
I Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, 
When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die. 

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam 
I Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train: 
I To-morrow shall the many-color'd main 

In brightness roll beneath his orient beam ! 

1 Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
I Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadov^y dance 
1 The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance, 
Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! 

' Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate ; 
j The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild mizrmurs, led 
I His weary oxen to their nightly shed. 
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 

Nor shall not Fortune vidth a vengeful smile 
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might. 
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height, 
Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 

There, shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown, 
Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest ; 

' And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest ! 

\ Barter, for food, the jewels of his crown. 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS; 

A DESULTORY POEM, 
WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794. 

This is the time, when most divine to hear. 

The voice of Adoration rouses me. 

As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne, 

Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view 

The vision of the heavenly multitude. 

Who hymn'd the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's 

fields ! 
Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze. 
That harbinger'd thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes ! 



Despised Galilaean ! For the Great 
Invisible (by symbols only seen) 
With a peculiar and surpassing light 
Shines from the visage of the oppress'd good Man 
When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 
Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead, 
Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars ; 
True impress each of their creating Sire ! 
Yet nor high Grove, nor many-color'd Mead, 
Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles, 
Nor the starr'd Azure, nor the sovran Sun, 
E 'er with such majesty of portraiture 
Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate, 
As thou, meek Savior ! at the fearful hour 
WTien thy insulted Anguish wing'd the prayer 
Harp'd by Archangels, when they sing of Mercy ! 
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his 

Throne, 
Diviner light fill'd Heaven with ecstasy ! 
Heaven's hymnings paused : and Hell her yawning 

mouth 
Closed a brief moment. 

Lovely was the death 
Of Him whose life was love ! Holy with power 
He on the thought-benighted sceptic beam'd 
Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
What floating mists of dark Idolatry 
Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire : 
And first by Fear uncharm'd the drowsed Soul.* 
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel 
Dim recollections : and thence soar'd to Hope, 
Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good 
The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons. 
From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love 
Attracted and absorb'd : and centred there 
God only to behold, and know, and feel, 
Till by exclusive Consciousness of God 
All self-annihilated it shall make 
God its Identity : God all in all ! 
We and our Father one ! 

And bless'd are they. 
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, 
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of Men, 
Adore with stedfast unpresuming gaze 
Him Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy ! 
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend 
Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne 
Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor loved. 
They nor Contempt embosom nor Revenge : 
For they dare loiow of what may seem deform 
The Supreme Fair sole Operant ; in whose sight 
All things are pure, his strong controlling Love 
Alike from all educing perfect good. 
Theirs too celestial courage, inly arm'd — 
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse 
On their great Father, great beyond compare ! 
And marching onwards view high o'er their heads 
His waving Banners of Omnipotence. 

Who the Creator love, created might 

Dread not : within their tents no terrors walk. 



* To Novrov BiripriKaciv eis tcoXXuv 
Quav iSioTrjTas. 

Damas. de Myst. Mgypt. 

23 



14 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For they are holy things before the Lord, 

Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with 

Hell; 
God's Altar grasping with an eager hand, 
Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends 
Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven, 
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss 
Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised : 
And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs ! 
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, 
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds 
All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoved 
Views e'en the immitigable ministers 
That shower down vengeance on these latter days. 
For kindling with intenser Deity 
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, 
And at the renovating Wells of Love 
Have fiU'd their Vials with salutary Wrath, 
To sickly Nature more medicinal 
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours 
Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith, 
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares 
Drink up the spirit and the dim regards 
Self-centre. Lo they vanish ! or acquire 
New names, new features — by supernal grace 
Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven. 
As when a shepherd on a vernal morn 
Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow 

foot. 
Darkling he fixes on the immediate road 
His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 
Hid or deform'd. But lo ! the bursting Sun ! 
Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam, 
Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes 
Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 
On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 
Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, 
And wide around the landscape streams with glory! 

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 

Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 

Truth of subliming import ! with the which 

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 

He from his small particular orbit flies 

With bless'd outstarting ! From Himself he flies. 

Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze 

Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

This is indeed to dwell with the Most High ! 

Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 

Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. 

But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 

Unfeeling of our universal Sire, 

And that in his vast family no Cain 

Injures uninjured (in her best-aim'd blow 

Victorious Murder a blind Suicide), 

Haply for this some younger Angel now 

Looks down on Human Nature : and, behold ! 

A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad 

Embattling Interests on each other rush 

With unhelm'd rage ! 

'T is the sublime of man, 
Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves 



Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! 
This fraternizes Man, this constitutes 
Our charities and bearings. But 't is God 
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole ; 
This the worst superstition, him except 
Aught to desire, Supreme Reality! 
The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! 

Fiends of Superstition ! not that oft 

The erring Priest hath stain'd with brother's blood 
Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath 
Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun, 
Peopled with Death ; or where more hideous Trade 
Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish : 

1 will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends ! 

And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 

Hiding the present God ; whose presence lost, 

The moral world's cohesion, we become 

An anarchy of Spirits ! Toy-bewitch'd, 

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul. 

No common centre Man, no common sire 

Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 

'Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 

Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roam^ 

Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole ; 

When he by sacred sympathy might make 

The whole one Self! Self that no alien knows! 

Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel ! 

Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own. 

Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 

This the Messiah's destin'd victory ! 

But first oflfences needs must come ! Even now* 

(Black Hell laughs horrible — to hear the scoff!) 

Thee to defend, meek Galilaean ! Thee 

And thy mild laws of love unutterable. 

Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands 

Of social Peace ; and listening Treachery lurks 

With pious Fraud to snare a brother's life ; 

And childless widows o'er the groaning land 

Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread ; 

Thee to defend, dear Savior of Mankind ! 

Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince of 

Peace ! 
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War ! 
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North, 
The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord ! 
And he, connatural Mind ! whom (in their songs 
So bards of elder time had haply feign'd) 
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, 
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe 
Horrible sympathy ! And leagued with these 
Each petty German princeUng, nursed in gore ! 
Soul-harden'd barterers of human blood ! 



* January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his 
Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guild- 
ford moved an Amendment to the following effect: — "That 
the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest oppor- 
tunity to conclude a peace with France," etc. This motion 
was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who " considered the 
war to be merely grounded on one principle — the preservation 
of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke of 
Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the 
Establishment of a Peace with France. He was opposed 
(among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words : 
" The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War ! and War car- 
ried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worship 
our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all our 
minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength." 
24 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



15 



Death's prime Slave-merchants ! Scorpion-whips of 

Fate ! 
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate, * 
Whom Britain erst had blush'd to call her sons ! 
Thee to defend the Moloch Priest prefers 
The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd 
That Deity, Accomplice Deity 
In the fierce jealousy of waken'd wrath 
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets, 
To scatter the red ruin on their foes ? 
O blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
With blessedness! 

Lord of unsleeping Love,* 
From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die. 
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form. 
Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong 
Making Truth lovely, and her future might 
Magnetic o'er the fix'd untrembhng heart. 

In the primeval age a dateless while 
The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock. 
Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. 
But soon Imagination conjured up 
An host of new desires : with busy aim. 
Each for himself. Earth's eager children toil'd. 
So Property began, two-streaming fount. 
Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 
Hence the soft couch, and many-color'd robe. 
The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast. 
With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul 
To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 
Unsensualized the mind, which in the means 
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end, 
Best pleasured with its own activity. 
And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm. 
The dagger'd Envy, spirit-quenching Want, 
Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills 
That vex and desolate our mortal life. 
Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate source 
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 
To ceaseless action goading human thought 
Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord ; 
And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand 
Strong as an host of armed Deities, 
Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst. 

From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War 

Sprang heavenly Science ; and from Science 

Freedom. 
O'er waken'd realms Philosophers and Bards 
Spread in concentric circles : they whose souls, 
Conscious of their high dignities from God, 
! Brook not Wealth's rivaliy ! and they who long 
Enamour'd with the charms of order hate 
The imseemly disproportion : and whoe'er 
Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse 
On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage 
Call'd the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud. 
And dash'd the beauteous Terrors on the earth 
Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 
Measured firm paces to the calming sound 
Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day. 



* Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, mine Holy onel 
We shall not die. O Lord, thou hast ordained them for judg- 
ment, QiQ.—HaJbakkuk. 

D 



When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men 

Have roused with pealing voice unnumber'd tribes 

That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind. 

These hush'd awhile with patient eye serene. 

Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 

Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 

And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might 

Moulding Confusion to such perfect forms. 

As erst were wont, bright visions of the day ! 

To float before them, when, the Summer noon, 

Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined. 

They felt the sea-breeze lift their youthful locks ; 

Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve. 

Wandering with desultory feet inhaled 

The wafted perfumes, and the rocks and woods 

And many-tinted streams and setting Sun 

With all his gorgeous company of clouds 

Ecstatic gazed ! then homeward as they stray'd 

Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused 

Why there was Misery in a world so fair. 

Ah far removed from all that glads the sense. 

From all that softens or ennobles Man, 

The wretched Many ! Bent beneath their loads 

They gape at pageant Power, nor recognize 

Their cots' transmuted plunder ! From the tree 

Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen 

Rudely disbranch'd ! Blessed Society ! 

Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorch'd waste, 

Where oft majestic through the tainted noon 

The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 

Who falls not prostrate dies ! And where by night, 

Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 

The lion couches ; or hyena dips 

Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws ; 

Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk, 

Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth* yells, 

His bones loud-crashing ! 

O ye numberless, 
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony 
Drives from life's plenteous feast ! O thou poor 

vvrretch. 
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want, 
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand 
Dost lift to deeds of blood ! O pale-eyed form, 
The victim of seduction, doom'd to know 
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ; 
Who in lothed orgies with lewd wassailers 
Must gaily laugh, while thy remember'd home 
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart ! 
O aged Women ! ye who weekly catch 
The morsel toss'd by law-forced Charity, 
And die so slowly, that none call it murder ! 
O lothely Suppliants ! ye, that unreceived 
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
Of the full Lazar-house : or, gazing, stand 
Sick with despair ! O ye to Glory's field 
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death. 
Bleed with new wounds beneath the Vulture's beak 
O thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view 
Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
Start'st with a shriek ; or in thy half thatch'd cot 
Waked by the vidntry night-storm, wet and cold, 
Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile 



* Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. 
Some believe it is the elephant, some the hippopotamus ; some 
affirm it is the wild bull. Poetically, it designates any largo 
Quadruped. 

25 



16 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Children of Wretchedness ! More groans must rise, 
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 
Yet is the day of Retribution nigh : 
The Lamb of God hath open'd the fifth seal : 
And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
The innumerable multitude of wrongs 
By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile, 
Children of Wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ; 
And lo ! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men, 
The Kings and the Chief Captains of tlie World, 
With all that fix'd on high like stars of Heaven 
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth. 
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
Even now the storm begins:* each gentle name, 
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 
Tremble far-oflF — for lo ! the Giant Frenzy, 
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm, 
Mocketh high Heaven ; burst hideous from the cell 
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge. 
Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits 
Nursing the impatient earthquake. 



O return ! 
Pure Faith ! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form 
Whose scarlet robe was stiflf with earthly pomp, 
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, 
Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that cry? 
The mighty army of foul Spirits shriek'd 
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
She that reel'd heavily, whose wine was blood ; 
She that work'd whoredom with the Demon Power, 
And from the dark embrace all evil things 
Brought forth and nurtured : mitred Atheism : 
And patient Folly who on bended knee 
Gives back the steel that stabb'd him ; and pale 

Fear 
Hunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight ! 
Return,- pure Faith ! return, meek Piety ! 
The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart, 
Self-govem'd, the vast family of Love 
Raised from the common earth by common toil, 
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
As float to earth, permitted visitants ! 
When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are throAvn 
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild 
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies. 
And odors snatch'd from beds of Amaranth, 
And they, that from the crystal river of life 
Spring up on freshen'd wing, ambrosial gales ! 
The favor'd good man in his lonely walk 
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
Strange bliss which he shall recognize in heaven. 
And such dehghts, such strange beatitude 
Seize on my young anticipating heart 
When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
For in his own and in his Father's might 
The Savior comes ! While as the Thousand Years 
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! 
Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dead 
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 



With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan. 
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
The high Groves of the renovated Earth 
Unbosom their glad echoes : inly hush'd, 
Adoring Newton his serener eye 
Raises to heaven : and he of mortal kind 
Wisest, he* first who mark'd the ideal tribes 
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. 
Lo ! Priestley there. Patriot, and Saint, and Sage, 
Him, full of years, from his loved native land 
Statesmen blood-stain'd and Priests idolatrous 
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying, he retired. 
And mused expectant on these promised years. 

O years ! the blest pre-eminence of Saints ! 
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright, 
The wings that veil the adoring Seraph's eyes. 
What time he bends before the Jasper Throne,t 
Reflect no lovelier hues ! yet ye depart. 
And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange. 
Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 
For who of woman born may paint the hour. 
When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall, wane 
Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born 
May image in the workings of his thought. 
How the black- visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretch'dt 
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans, 
In feverish slumbers — destin'd then to wake, 
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
And Angels shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
The last great Spirit lifting high in air 
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One, 
Time is no more ! 

Believe thou, O my soul. 
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave. 
Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God 
Forth flashing imimaginable day, 
Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest helF. 

Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hover o'er 

With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 

Ebullient with creative Deity ! 

And ye of plastic power, that interfused 

Roll through the grosser and material mass 

In organizing surge ! Holies of God ! 

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 

I haply journeying my immortal course 

Shall sometime join your mystic choir? Till then 

I discipline my young noviciate thought 

In ministries of heart-stirring song. 

And aye on Meditation's heavenward wing 

Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 

Of liOve, omnific, omnipresent Love, 

Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 

As the great Sun, when he his influence 

Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 

Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flovi^. 



• Alluding to the French Revolution. 



* David Hartley. 

t Rev. Chap. iv. v. 2 and 3.— And immediately I was in the 
Spirit : and behold, a Throne was set in Heaven, and one sat 
on the throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper 
and sardine stone, etc. 

t The final Destruction impersonated. 

26 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



17 



THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 



Auspicious Reverence ! Hush all meaner song, 
Ere we the deep preluding strain have pour'd 
To the Great Father, only Rightful King, 
Eternal Father ! King Omnipotent ! 
The Will, the Word, the Breath, — the Living God. 

Such symphony requires best instrument. 
Seize, then! my soul! from Freedom's trophied dome, 
The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields 
Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that 
Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back 
Earth's free and stirring spirit that lies entranc'd. 

For what is Freedom, but the unfetter'd use 
Of all the powers which God for use had given? 
But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view 
Through meaner powers and secondary things 
Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 
Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 
For infant minds ; and we in this low world 
P-laced with our backs to bright Reality, 
That we may learn with young unwounded ken 
The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, 
Whose latence is the plenitude of All, 
Thou with retracted Beams, and Self-eclipse 
Veiling, revealest thine eternal Son. 

But some there are who deem themselves most free 
When they within this gross and visible sphere 
Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent. 
Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat 
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase, 
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences. 
Self-working tools, uncaus'd effects, and all 
Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves, 
Untenanting creation of its God. 

But properties are God : the naked mass 
(If mass there be, fantastic Guess or Ghost) 
Acts only by its inactivity. 
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
That as one body seems the aggregate 
Of Atoms numberless, each organized ; 
So, by a strange and dim similitude. 
Infinite myriads of self conscious minds 
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
With absolute ubiquity of thought 
(His one eternal self-afSrming Act !) 
All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
With various province and apt agency 
Each to pursue its own self-centering end. 
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine; 
Some roll the genial juices through the oak ; 
Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air. 
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed. 
Yoke the red lightning to their volleying car. 
Thus these pursue their never-varying course. 
No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild. 
With complex interests weaving human fates, 
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
Evolve the process of eternal good. 



And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realms 
Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God, 
And on the rude eye, unconfirm'd for day, 
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapory head 
The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun 
Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows. 
While yet the stern and solitary Night 
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam, 
Guiding his course or by Niemi lake 
Or Balda-Zhiok,* or the mossy stone 
Of Solfar-kapper,t while the snowy blast 
Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge, 
Making the poor babe at its mother's back| 
Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while 
Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 
He marks the streamy banners of the North, 
Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join 
Who there in floating robes of rosy light 
Dance sportively. For Fancy is the Power 
That first unsensualizes the dark mind. 
Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell 
With wild activity ; and peopling air, 
By obscure fears of Beings invisible. 
Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 
Of the present impulse, teaching Self-control, 
Till Superstition with unconscious hand 
Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain, 
Nor yet without permitted power impress'd, 
I deem'd those legends terrible, with which 
The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng; 
Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 
O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird 
Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 
Is Tempest, when the unutterable shape$ 
Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 
That shriek, which never Murderer heard and lived, 
Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 
Pierces the untravell'd realms of Ocean's bed 
(Where live the innocent, as far from cares 
As from the storms and overwhelming waves 
Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep). 
Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave 
By misshaped prodigies beleaguer'd, such 
As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea. 

There dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard 
name 
With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath; 



* Balda Zhiok ; i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain 
in Lapland. 

t Solfar Kapper ; capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium quot- 
quot veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoque cul- 
tui dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs 
semimilliaris spatio a mari distans. IpseJocus, quem curiositatis 
gratia aliquando me invisisse memini, duabus prealtis lapidibus, 
sibi invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat, 
constabat. — Leemius De Lapponibus. 

t The Lapland Women carry their infants at their back in a 
piece of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle. 
Opposite to the infant's mouth there is aJiole for it to breathe 
through. — Mirandum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui vidisset 
contigit. Lappones hyeme iter facientes per vastas monies, per- 
que horrida et invia tesqua, eo presertim tempore quo omnia 
perpetuis nivibus obtecta sunt et nives ventis agitantur et in 
gyros aguntur, viam ad destinata loca absque errore invenire 
posse, lactantem autem infantem si quem habeat, ipsa mater 
in dorso bajulat, in excavato ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant) quod 
pro cunis utuntur : in hoc infans pannis et pellibus convolutus 
colligatus jacet. — Leemius De Lapponibus. 

§ Jaibme Aibmo. 

27 



18 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, 
Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear. 
Lest, haply escaping on some treacherous blast, 
The fateful word let slip the Elements, 
And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her, 
Arm'd with Torngarsuck's* power, the Spirit of 

Good, 
Forces to unchain the foodful progeny 
Of the Ocean's stream. — Wild phantasies! yet wise. 
On the victorious goodness of High God 
Teaching Reliance, and Medicinal Hope, 
Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth, 
With gradual steps winning her difficult way, 
Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 

If there be Beings of higher class than Man, 
I deem no nobler province they possess. 
Than by disposal of apt circumstance 
To rear up Kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt. 
Distinguishing from mortal agency, 
They choose their human ministers from such states 
As still the Epic song half fears to name, 
Repell'd from all the Minstrelsies that strike 
The Palace-roof and soothe the Monarch's pride. 

And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words 
Witness'd by answering deeds may claim our Faith) 
Held commune with that warrior-maid of France 
Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days. 
With Wisdom, Mother of retired Thoughts, 
Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark 
The good and evil thing, in human lore 
Undisciplined. For lowly was her Birth, 
And Heaven had doom'd her early years to Toil, 
That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself 
Unfear'd by Fellow-natures, she might wait 
On the poor Laboring man with kindly looks, 
And minister refreshment to the tired 
Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hev^oi Bench 
The sweltry man had stretch'd him, and aloft 
Vacantly watch'd the rudely pictured board 
Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak 
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid 
Learnt more than Schools could teach : Man's shift- 
ing mind. 
His Vices and his Sorrows ! And full oft 
At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress 
Had wept and shiver'd. To the tottering Eld 
Still as a Daughter would she run: she placed 
His cold Limbs at the sunny Door, and loved 
To hear him story, in his garrulous sort. 
Of his eventful years, all come and gone. 

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form, 
Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury 
Had shrunk or paled. Her front subhme and broad. 
Her flexile eye-brows wildly hair'd and low, 
And her full eye, now bright, now unillum'd. 
Spake more than Woman's Thought; and all her 
face 



* They call the Good Spirit Torngarsuck. The other great 
bat malignant spirit is a nameless Female; she dwells under 
the sea in a great house, where she can detain in captivity all 
the animals of the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth 
befalls the Greenlanders, an Angekok or magician must under- 
take a journey thither. He passes through the kingdom of 
souls, over an horrible abyss into the Palace of this phantom, 
.nd by his enchantments causes the captive creatures to ascend 
directly to the surface of the ocean. — See Crantz' Hist, of 
Oreenland, vol. i. 20G. 



Was moulded to such features as declared 
That Pity there had oft and strongly work'd. 
And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien. 
And like a haughty Huntress of the woods 
She mov'd : yet sure she was a gentle maid ! 
And in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beam'd forth so brightly, that who saw would say 
Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
Nor idly would have said — for she had lived 
In this bad World as in a place of Tombs, 
And touch'd not the pollutions of the Dead. 

'Twas the cold season, when the Rustic's eye 
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints 
And clouds slow varying their huge imagery ; 
When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 
Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone. 
Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft. 
With dim inexplicable sympathies 
Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course 
To the predoom'd adventure. Now the ascent 
She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watch'd 
The alien shine of unconcerning Stars, 
Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 
Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown 
The wdnding sheep-track vale-ward : when, behold 
In the first entrance of the level road 
An unattended Team ! The foremost horse 
Lay with stretch'd limbs ; the others, yet alive, 
But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes 
Hoar vdth the frozen night-dews. Dismally 
The dark-red dovm now glimmer'd ; but its gleams 
Disclosed no face of man. The Maiden paused. 
Then hail'd who might be near. No voice replied- 
From the thwart wain at length there reach'd her 

ear 
A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd 
Distant : and feebly, with slow eflfort push'd, 
A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 
The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire. 
Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime, 
Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
A mother and her children — lifeless all. 
Yet lovely ! not a lineament was raarr'd — 
Death had put on so slumber-like a form ! 
It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe, 
The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips. 
Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 
Stretch'd on her bosom. 



Mutely questioning, 
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
Look'd with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 
The drowsy pang that steals on worn-out anguish. 
She shudder'd : but, each vainer pang subdued, 
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
The stiff cramp'd team forced homeward. There 

arrived. 
Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noontide hour. 
The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes 
Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs, 
28 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



19 



With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
His voice had falter'd out this simple tale. 

The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman, 
By sudden inroad had been seized and fired 
Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 
And little ones he hurried his escape. 
They saw the neighboring Hamlets flame, they 

heard 
Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quench'd 
Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
The air dipt keen, the night was fang'd with frost. 
And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
111 hush'd her children's moans ; and still they 

moan'd, 
Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 
They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 't was 

Death. 
He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team, 
Gain'd a sad respite, till beside the base 
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropp'd dead. 
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 
He crept beneath the coverture, entranced. 
Till waken'd by the maiden. — Such his tale. 

Ah ! suffering to the height of what was sufFer'd, 
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark ! 
And now her flush'd tumultuous features shot 
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
Of misery Fancy-crazed ! and now once more 
Naked, and void, and fix'd, and all within 
The unquiet silence of confused thought 
And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 
Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
To the high hill-top tracing back her steps. 
Aside the beacon, up whose smoulder'd stones 
The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 
Unconscious of the driving element, 
Yea, swallow'd up in the ominous dream, she sate 
Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 
Breathed from her look! and still, with pant and sob, 
Inly she toil'd to flee, and still subdued, 
Felt an inevitable Presence near. 

Thus as she toil'd in troublous ecstasy,' 
An horror of great darkness wrapt her round. 
And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones. 
Calming her soul, — " O Thou of the Most High 
Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
Behold expectant 

[The following fragments were intended to form part of the 
Poem when finished.] 

" Maid beloved of Heaven ! " 
(To her the tutelary Power exclaim'd) 
" Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 
Thou seest ; foul missionaries of foul sire, 
Fierce to regain the losses of that hour 
When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings 
Over the abyss flutter'd with such glad noise, 
As what time after long and pestful calms, 
With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 
Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night 
A heavy unimaginable moan 



Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 
Stand beauteous on Confusion's charmed wave. 
Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound 
That leads with downward windings to the Cave 
Of darkness palpable, Desert of Death 
Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 
There many a dateless age the Beldame lurk'd 
And trembled ; till engender'd by fierce Hate, 
Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose, 
Shaped like a black cloud mark'd with streaks of 

fire. 
It roused the Hell-Hag : she the dew damp wiped 
From off her brow, and through the uncouth maze 
Retraced her steps ; but ere she reach'd the mouth 
Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused. 
Nor dared re-enter the diminish'd Gulf. 
As through the dark vaults of some moulder'd 

Tower 
(Which, fearful to approach, the evening Hind 
Circles at distance in his homeward way) 
The winds breathe hollow, deem'd the plaining groan 
Of prison'd spirits ; with such fearful voice 
Night murmur'd, and the sound through Chaos went. 
Leap'd at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 
A dark behest they heard, and rush'd on earth ; 
Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored. 
Rebels from God, and Monarchs o'er Mankind!'* 



From his obscure haunt 
Shriek'd Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam, 
Feverish yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow, 
As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds, 
Ague, the biform Hag ! when early Spring 
Beams on the marsh-bred vapors. 



" Even so " (the exulting Maiden said) 
" The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell. 
And thus they witness'd God ! But now the clouds 
Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
Loud songs of Triumph ! O ye spirits of God, 
Hover around my mortal agonies ! " 
She spake, and instantly faint melody 
Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow, — 
Such Measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
By aged Hermit in his holy dream. 
Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 
The white-robed* multitude of slaughter'd saints 
At Heaven's wide-open'd portals gratulant 
Receive some martyr'd Patriot. The harmony 
Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense 
Brief slumber seized, and confused ecstasy. 

At length awakening slow, she gazed around : 
And through a Mist, the relic of that trance 
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appear'd. 
Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted clifis, 
Glass'd on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
Stretch'd opposite, where ever and anon 



* Revel, vi. 9, 11. And when he had opened the fifth seal, I 
saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the 
word of God, and for the testimony which they held. And 
white robes were given unto every one of them, and it was 
said unto them that they should rest yet for a little season, 
until their fellow servants also and their brethren, that should 
be killed as they were, should be fulfilled. 



20 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Plow-man, following sad his meagre team, 
Turn'd up fresh sculls unstarlled, and the bones 
Oi' fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
All mingled lay beneath tlie common earlh. 
Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the Fields 
Slept a fair form, repairing all she might, 
Her temples olive-wreathed ; and where she trod 
Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure, 
And anxious pleasure beam'd in her faint eye, 
As she had newly left a couch of pain. 
Pale Convalescent ! (yet some time to rule 
With power exclusive o'er the willing world, 
That bless'd prophetic mandate then fulfiU'd, 
Peace be on Earth !) A happy while, but brief, 
She seem'd to wander with assiduous feet. 
And heal'd the recent harm of chill and blight. 
And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew, 

But soon a deep precursive sound moan'd hollow : 
Black rose the clouds, and now (as in a dream) 
Their reddening shapes, transformed to Warrior- 
hosts, 
Coursed o'er the Sky, and battled in mid-air. 
Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from Heaven 
Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float. 
Like hideous features booming on the mist. 
Wan Stains of ominous Light ! Resign'd, yet sad, 
The fair Form bowed her olive-crovmed Brow, 
Then o'er the plain wdth oft-reverted eye 
Fled till a Place of Tombs she reach'd, and there 
Within a ruined Sepulchre obscure 
Found Hiding-place. 

The delegated Maid 
Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaim'd, 
" Thou mild-eyed Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore 

fled? 
The power of Justice, like a name all Light, 
Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
Dwelt in thy dwellmgs, call thee Happiness. 
Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited. 
Should multitudes agamst their brethren rush ? 
Why sow they guilt, still reaping Misery ? 
Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace ! are sweet, 
As after showers the perfumed gale of eve. 
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek : 
And gay the grassy altar piled with fruits. 
But boasts the shrine of Daemon War one charm, 
Save that with many an orgie strange and foul, 
Dancing around with interw^oven arms. 
The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder 
Exult in their fierce union ? I am sad, 
And know not why the simple Peasants crowd 
Beneath the Chieftains' standard!" Thus the Maid 



To her the tutelary Spirit replied : 
" When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores 
No more can rouse the appetites of Kings ; 
When the low flattery of their reptile Lords 
Falls flat and heavy on the accustom'd ear ; 
When Eunuchs sing, and Fools bufllbonery make, 
And Dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ; 
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant Hearts ; 
Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
Insipid Royalty's keen condiment ! 
Therefore uninjured and unprofited 



(Victims at once and Executioners), 
The congregated Husbandmen lay waste 
The Vineyard and the Harvest. As long 
The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 
Though hush'd the Winds and cloudless the high 

Noon, 
Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease. 
In sports unwieldy toss his Island-bulk, 
Ocean behind him billows, and before 
A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 
And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark. 
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
And War, his strained sinews knit anew. 
Still violate the unfinish'd works of Peace. 
But yonder look ! for more demands thy view ! " 
He said : and straightway from the opposite Isle 
A Vapor sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled 
From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence, 
Travels the sky for many a trackless league, 
Till o'er some Death-doom'd land, distant in vain, 
It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the Plain, 
Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose. 
And steer'd its course which way the Vapor went. 

The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean. 
But long time pass'd not, ere that brighter cloud 
Return'd more bright ; along the plain it swept ; 
And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged 
A dazzling form, broad-bosom'd, bold of eye. 
And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
Not more majestic stood the healing God, 
When from his bow the arrow sped that slew 
Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng. 
And wdth them hiss'd the Locust-fiends that crawl'd 
And glitter'd in Corruption's slimy track. 
Great was their wrath, for short they knew theii 

reign ; 
And such commotion made they, and uproar. 
As when the mad Tornado bellows through 
The guilty islands of the western main. 
What time departing from their native shores, 
Eboe, or Koromantyn's* plain of Palms, 



* The slaves in the West-Indies consider death as a passport 
to their native country. This sentiment is thus expressed in 
the introduction to a Greek Prize-Ode on the Slave-Trade, of 
which the ideas are better than the language in which they 
are conveyed. 

ii (JKQTOV TTtXaj, Qavarz^ i:po\tnt<iiv 
Es ytvog airevSoig vrro^ev^Oev Arqi' 
Ov ^eviadt] GTj ytvvmv cirapaynoi \ 

OvS" o'\o\vymoj 
AXXa Kai kvkXokti •)(^opoiTVTroi(n 
K'ao-jwarwv %apa' (poBtpog fnev eaci 
AXX' Ojxwg 'EiXevdepiqi o-ui/ot/ca?, 

Hrvyve Tvpavve I 
AaaKioig eirei nrepvyccrfft arriat 
A ! ^aXacaiov KaQopwvTEs oiSfxa 
AideponXayrois vno -nocrff' avtiai 

YlaTpih ii:'' aiav- 

Ev6)a fxav Epacai Epcfipevrjaiv 
Aju0c Ttriyriaiv Kirpivwv vir^ a\a(j)v, 
Offo-'tiTTO ^poTOis tiradov (iporai., ra 
Ativa \eyovai. 

LITERAL TRANSLATION. 

Leaving the Gates of Darkness, O Death ! hasten thou to a 
Race yoked with Misery ! Thou wilt not be received with 
30 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



21 



The infuriate spirits of the Murder'd make 
Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 
Warm'd with new influence, the unwholesome plain 
Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the Morn : 
The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in blood ! 

" Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! " 
(To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
" Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day, 
The stormy Morning into cloudless Noon. 
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
But this be thy best Omen — Save thy Country ! " 



lacerations of cheeks, nor with funeral ululation — but with 
circling dances and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible indeed, 
yet thou dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius ! Borne on thy 
dark pinions over the swelling of ocean, they return to their 
native country. There, by the side of Fountains beneath 
Citron-groves, the lovers tell to their beloved what horrors, 
being Men, they had endured from Men. 



Thus saying, from the answering Maid he pass'd. 
And with him disappear'd the Heavenly Vision. 

" Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
All-conscious Presence of the Universe ! 
Nature's vast Ever-acting Energy ! 
In Will, in Deed, Impulse of All to All ! 
Whether thy love with unrefracted ray 
Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
Diseasing realms the enthusiast, wild of thought, 
Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng, 
Thou both inspiring and predooming both. 
Fit instruments and best, of perfect end : 
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! " 

And first a landscape rose. 
More wild and waste and desolate than where 
The while bear, drifting on a field of ice. 
Howls to her sunder'd cubs with piteous rage 
And savage agony. 



StKJKlline ILtui^tu. 



POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL 
EVENTS OR FEELINGS CONNECTED 
WITH THEM. 



When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords for legers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 

I had, my country ! Am I to be blamed ? 

But, when 1 think of Thee, and what Thou art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 

In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 

And I by my affection was beguiled. 

What wonder if a poet, now and then. 

Among the many movements of his mind. 

Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child. 

Wordsworth. 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.* 

low, lov, w w KaKd. 
Ytt' av jus Seivbs ipdoixavTEiag irovog 
SrpofisT, TapdccTwv (ppoiixlois i(j>r)nioig. 
****** 

T(5 niXXov rj^ei. Kal cv fxr]v Ttd^ei irapwv 
*Ayav y' aXrjOonavTiv ju' fpttj. 

.^scHYL. Agam. 1225. 



ARGUMENT. 

The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine 
Providence, that regulates into one vast harmony all 
the events of time, however calamitous some of them 



* This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days 
of -December, 1796 : and was first published on the last day of 
that year. 



may appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls 
on men to suspend their private joys and sorrows,, 
and devote them for a while to the cause of human 
nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the 
Empress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the 
17th of November, 1796; having just concluded a 
subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined against 
France. The first and second Antistrophe describe 
the Image of the Departing Year, etc. as in a vision. 
The second Epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit^ 
the downfall of this country. 



I. 

Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time ! 
It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
Yet, mine eye fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime. 
Long when I listen'd, free from mortal fear, 
With inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 
When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 
I saw the train of the Departing Year ! 
Starting from my silent sadness, 
Then with no unholy madness. 
Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight, 
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his 
flight. 

II. 

Hither, from the recent tomb, 
From the prison's direr gloom, 
From Distemper's midnight anguish ; 
And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish, 
Or where, his two bright torches blending, 

Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
Or where, o'er cradled infants bending, 
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze, 
Hither, in perplexed dance. 
Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
31 



22 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
WTiose indefatigable sweep 
Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 
I bid you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band ! 
From every private bower. 

And each domestic hearth, 
Haste for one solemn hour ; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice, 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth 

Weep and rejoice I 
Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 

And now advance in saintly Jubilee 
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell. 
They too obey thy name, Divinest Liberty ! 



HI. 

I mark'd Ambition in his war-array ! 

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 
"Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay! 
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? " 
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
Stxinn'd by Death's twice mortal mace, 
No more on Murder's lurid face 
The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 
Manes of the unnumber'd slain ! 
Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower. 
When human ruin choked the streams, 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 
Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain. 

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
Oft, at night, in misty train, 

Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
The exterminating fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance like death-fires round her tomb ! 
Then with prophetic song relate. 
Each some tyrant-murderer's fate! 



IV. 
Departing Year ! 't was on no earthly shore 
My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
Voiceless and stern, before the cloiidy throne. 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore. 
With many an unimaginable groan 

Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with 
glories shone. 
Then, his eye wild ardors glancing, 
From the choired Gods advancing. 
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 



V. 

Throughout the blissful throng, 

Hush'd were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven 

(The mystic Words of Heaven), 

Permissive signal make : 
The fervent Spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and 
spake! 



" Thou in stormy blacloiess throning 

Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning. 
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! 
By Peace with profler'd insult sacred. 
Masked Hate and envying Scorn ! 
By Years of Havoc yet unborn ! 
And Hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared ! 
But chief by Afric's wrongs, 

Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
By what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies!' 
By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's howl ! 
Avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl. 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
Speak! from thy storm-black Heaven, O speak aloud ! 

And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 

O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ! 
The past to thee, to thee the future cries ! 

Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
Rise, God of Nature ! rise." 



VL 

The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread. 
And ever, when the dream of night 
Renews the phantom to my sight, 
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
And my thick and struggling breath 
Imitates the toil of Death ! 
No stronger agony confounds 

The Soldier on the war-field spread. 
When all foredone wdth toil and woimds, 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 

And the night- wind clamors hoarse ! 
See ! the starting wretch's head 

Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse !) 



VII. 

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! 
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers. 
Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 

Echo to the bleat of flocks 
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) ; 
And Ocean, 'mid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his island-child ! 

Hence, for many a fearless age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ! 
Nor ever proud Invader's rage 
Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. 



vin. 

Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide, 
At cowardly distance, yet Idndling with pride — 
32 



.^> 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



23 



'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast 

stood, 
And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and Blood ! 
The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering 

Shall hear Destruction, like a Vulture, scream ! 

Strange-eyed Destruction! who with many a dream 
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering 

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet, as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 

O Albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise, 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. 

IX. 

Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain, the Birds of warning sing — 
And hark ! I hear the famish'd brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind! 
Away, my soul, away ! 
I, unpartaking of the evil thing, 
With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
Have wail'd my country with a loud lament. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 



FRANCE. 



I. 

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 

Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 

Ye Ocean- Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll. 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds' singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, 
Save when your own imperious branches swinging. 

Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 

And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd I 
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 

Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 

With what deep worship I have still ador'd 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

II. 

When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd, 
And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea, 
Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, 

Bear wdtness for me, how I hoped and fear'd ! 

With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band : 

And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 



The Monarchs march'd in evil day, 
And Britain joined the dire array ; 

Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 

Had swoln the patriot emotion. 
And flung a magic hght o'er all her hills and groves; 
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat! 
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 
I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; 

But bless'd the pasans of deliver'd France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

IIL 

" And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, 
The Sun was rising, though he hid his light ! 

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seem'd calm ano' 
bright ; 
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; 

When, insupportably advancing. 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp; 

While timid looks of fury glancing. 
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 

Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; 
" And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore 
;In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone. 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joj look round, and call the Earth 
their own." 

IV. 

Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd ; 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 

With bleeding wounds; forgive me that I cherish'd 
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes ! 

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, 

Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, bHnd, 

And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human-kind ? 

To mix wdth Kings in the low lust of sway, 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; 
To insult the shrhie of Liberty with spoils 

From Freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
33 



24 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
Hj^ve I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 

Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee 

(Not prayer nor boastful name delays thee), 
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions. 

And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmates of the 



And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-clifF's verge, 
Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above, 

Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, 

And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 

Possessing all things with intensest love, 

O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 

February, 1797. 



FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF 
AN INVASION. 

A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
No sinking sky-lark ever poised himself 
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
All golden with the never-bloomless furze, 
"Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell. 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax. 
When, through its half- transparent stalks, at eve, 
The level Sunshine glimmers with green light. 
Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook! 
Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he, 
The humble man, who, in his youthful years. 
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
His early manhood more securely wise ! 
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath. 
While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best). 
And from the Sun, and from the breezy Air, 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; . 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
Made up a meditative joy, and found 
Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
In a half-sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark ! 
That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 



My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring 
This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, 



And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 

And undetermined conflict — even now. 

Even now, perchance, and in his native isle ; 

Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun ! 

We liave offended, Oh I my countrymen ! 

We have oifended very grievously, 

And been most tyrannous. From east lo west 

A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 

The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 

Countless and vehement, the Sons of God, 

Our Brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 

Steam'd up from Cairo'<5 swamps of pestilence. 

Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 

And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 

With slow perdition murders the whole man. 

His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 

All individual dignity and power 

Ingulf 'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 

Associations and Societies, 

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild, 

One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery. 

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace. 

Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 

Contemptuous of all honorable rule, 

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 

Of Christian promise, words that even yet 

Might stem destruction were they wisely preach'd. 

Are mutter'd o'er by men, whose tones proclaim 

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade: 

Rank scoflfei-s some, but most too indolent 

To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 

Oh ! blasphemous ! the book of life is made 

A superstitious instrument, on which 

We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 

For all must swear — all and in every place, 

College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 

Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, 

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 

All, all make up one scheme of perjury, 

That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 

Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy. 

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 

(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, 

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, 

Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close. 

And hooting at the glorious Sun in Heaven, 

Cries out, " Where is it ? " 

Thankless too for peace 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas), 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 
Its gliastlier workings (famine or blue plague. 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows). 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
Spectators and not combatants ? No guess 
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt. 
No speculation or contingency. 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth 
(StuiTd out with big preamble, holy names. 
34 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



25 



And adjurations of llie God in Heaven), 

We send our mandates for tlie certain death 

Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, 

And women, that would groan to see a child 

Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 

The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 

The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 

From curses, who knows scarcely woi'ds enough 

To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 

Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 

And technical in victories and defeats. 

And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 

Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 

Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which 

We join no feeling and attach no form ! 

As if the soldier died without a wound ; 

As if the fibres of this godlike frame 

Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch. 

Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 

Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd : 

As though he had no wife to pine for him. 

No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 

Are coming on us, O my countrymen ! 

And what if all-avenging Providence, 

Strong and retributive, should make us know 

The meaning of our words, force us to feel 

The desolation and the agony 

Of our fierce doings ! 



Spare us yet awhile. 
Father and God ! ! spare us yet awhile ! 
Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laugh'd at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure ! 
Stand forth : be men ! repel an impious foe, 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race. 
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Render them back upon the insulted ocean. 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 
Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear. 
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 



I have told, 
O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them. 
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 
Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
All change from change of constituted power ; 
As if a Government had been a robe, 



On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd 

Lilve fancy points and fringes, with the robe 

Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 

A radical causation to a few 

Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 

Who borrow all their hues and qualities 

From our own folly and rank wickedness, 

Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, 

meanwhile. 
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images. 
And yield them worship, they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deem'd — 
But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
A husband, and a father ! who revere 
All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 

native Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and 

holy 
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, 
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 
Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
All adoration of the God in nature. 
All lovely and all honorable things, 
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine 
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 

1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, \ 
Loving the God that made me ! 



May my fears. 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away 
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 



But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
The light has left the summit of the hill. 
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, 
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill. 
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recall'd 
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surrounding nook. 
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
And elmy fields, seems like society — 
Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 
And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
35 



26 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend, 
And close behind them, hidden from my view. 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With hght 
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! 
And grateful, that, by nature's quietness 
And solitary musings, all ray heart 
Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind. 
Nethe)- Slowey, April 28th, 1798. 



FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 

A WAR ECLOGUE. 

WITH AN APOLOGETIC PIIEFACE.* 



The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendue. Famine 
is discovered lying on the ground ; to her enter FiRE 
and Slaughter. 



FAMINE. 

Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 

SLAUGHTER (tO FIRE). 

I will whisper it in her ear. 



No! no! no! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
'Twdll make a holiday in Hell. 

No! no! no! 
Myself, I named him once below. 
And all the souls, that damned be, 
Leap'd up at once in anarchy, 
Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee. 
They no longer heeded me ; 
But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters 
Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 

No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell ! 
'T will make a holiday in Hell ! 



Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
In a dark hint, soft and slow. 

SLAUGHTER. 

Letters four do form his name — 
And who sent you ? 

BOTH. 

The same! the same! 

SLAUGHTER. 

He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den, 
And I have drunk the blood since then 
Of thrice three hundred thousand men. , 



Who bade you do it? 



SLAUGHTER. 

The same! the same! 



Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone tlie praise is due. 



Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled. 

Their wdvos and their children faint for bread. 

I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 

With bones and sculls I made a rattle, 

To frighten the wolf and carrion crow. 

And the homeless dog — but they would not go. 

So off I flew ; for how could I bear 

To see them gorge their dainty fare? 

I heard a groan and a peevish squall, 

And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 

Can you guess what I saw there ? 

BOTH. 

Whisper it, sister! in our ear. 

FAMINE. 

A baby beat its dying mother. 

I had starved the one, and was starving the other f 



BOTH. 



Who bade you do't? 



* See AppondLx to " Sibylline Leaves. 



FAMINE. 

The same! the same! 
Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo! 
To him alone the praise is due. 



Sisters! I from Ireland came! 

Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 

I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! 

And all the while the work was done, 

On as I strode with my huge strides, 

I flung back my head and I held my sides, 

It was so rare a piece of fun 

To see the swelter'd cattle run 

With uncouth gallop through the night, 

Scared by the red and noisy light! 

By the light of his own blazing cot 

Was many a nalied rebel shot: 

The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, 

While crash! fell in the roof, I wist. 

On some of those old bedrid nurses, 

That deal in discontent and curses. 



Who bade you do't? 

FIRE. 

The same! the same! 
Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo! 
To him alone the praise is due. 



He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
How shall we yield him honor due? 



Wisdom comes with lack of food, 
I '11 gnaw, I 'U gnaw the multitude, 



36 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



27 



Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 

They shall seize him and his brood — 

SLAUGHTER. 

They shall tear him limb from limb ! 

FIRE. 

thankless beldames and imtme ! 
And is this all that you can do 
For him who did so much for you ? 
Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
Hath richly cater'd for you both ; 
And in an hour would you repay 

An eight years' work ? — Away ! away I 

1 alone am faithful ! I 
Cling to him everlastingly. 

1796. 



I 



RECANTATION 

ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX. 

An Ox, long fed with musty hay, 

And work'd with yoke and chain, 
Was turn'd out on an April day, 
When fields" are in their best array, 
And growing grasses sparkle gay, 
At once with sun and rain. 

The grass was fine, the sun was bright, 

With truth I may aver it ; 
The Ox was glad, as well he might, 
Thought a green meadow no bad sight, 
And frisk'd to show his huge delight, 

Much like a beast of spirit 

" Stop, neighbors ! stop ! why these alarms ? 

The Ox is only glad." 
But still they pour from cots and farms — 
Halloo ! the parish is up in arms 
(A hoaxing hunt has always charms), 

Halloo! the Ox is mad. 

The frighted beast scamper'd about, 
Plunge ! through the hedge he drove — 

The mob pursue with hideous rout, 

A bull-dog fastens on his snout, 

He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out — 
He 's mad, he 's mad,, by Jove ! 

" Stop, neighbors, stop!" aloud did call 

A sage of sober hue. 
But all at once on him they fall, 
And women squeak and children squall, 
" What ! would you have him toss us all ? 

And, damme ! who are you ? " 

Ah, hapless sage ! his ears they stun, 

And curse him o'er and o'er — 
" You bloody-minded dog ! " (cries one,) 
" To slit your windpipe were good fun — 
'Od bl — you for an impious* son 
Of a Presbyterian w — re ! 



* One of the mam fine words which the most uneducated 
had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from 

the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the 

corners. 



" You 'd have him gore the parish-priest, 

And run against the altar — 
You Fiend!" — The sage his warnings ceased, 
And North, and South, and West, and East, 
Halloo ! they follow the poor beast, 

Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter. 

Old Lewis, 't was his evil day. 

Stood trembhng in his shoes ; 
Tlie Ox was his — wliat could he say ? 
His legs were stifFen'd with dismay, 
The Ox ran o'er him 'mid the fray. 

And gave him his death's bruise. 

The frighted beast ran on — but here. 
The Gospel scarce more true is — 

My muse stops short in mid-career — 

Nay ! gentle reader ! do not sneer, 

I cannot choose but drop a tear, 
A tear for good old Lewis. 

The frighted beast ran through the town. 

All follow'd, boy and dad. 
Bull-dog, Parson, Shopman, Clown, 
The Publicans rush'd from the Crown, 
" Halloo ! hamstring him ! cut him down ! " 

They drove the poor Ox mad. 

Should you a rat to madness tease, 

Why even a rat might plague you : 
There 's no philosopher but sees 
That rage and fear are one disease — 
Though that may burn and this may freeze, 
They're both alike the ague. 

And so this Ox, in frantic mood. 

Faced round hke any Bull — 
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued. 
Till they with fright and fear were stew'd. 
And not a chick of all this brood 

But had his belly-full. 

Old Nick's astride the beast, 't'is clear — 

Old Nicholas to a tittle ! 
But all agree he 'd disappear, 
Would but the parson venture near, 
And through his teeth, right o'er the steer, 

Squirt out some fasting-spittle.t 

Achilles was a warrior fleet. 

The Trojans he could worry — 
Our parson too was swift of feet. 
But show'd it chiefly in retreat ! 
The victor Ox scour'd down the street, 

The mob fled hurry-skurry. 

Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plow'd, 
Through his hedge and through her hedge, 

He plunged and toss'd, and bellow'd loud, 

Till in his madness he grew proud 

To see this helter-skelter crowd, 
That had more wrath than courage. 



t According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you 
meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or 
you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his 
horns. 

37 



28 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Alas ! to mend the breaches wide 
He made for these })oor ninnies, 
They all must work, whate'er betide, 
Both days and months, and pay beside 
(Sad news for Avarice and for Pride) 
A sight of golden guineas. 

But here once more to view did pop 
The man that kept his senses. 

And now he cried — " Stop, neighbors ! 

The Ox is mad ! I would not swop, 

No, not a school-boy's farthing top 
For all the parish fences. 



stop! 



« The Ox is mad ! Ho ! Dick. Bob, Mat! 

What means this coward fuss ? 
Ho ! stretch this rope across the plat — 
'T will trip him up — or if not that. 
Why, damme ! we must lay him flat — 

See, here 's my blunderbuss ! " 

" A l}dng dog ! just now he said, 

The Ox was only glad. 
Let's break his Presbyterian head I " — 
" Hush! " quoth the sage, " you've been misled, 
No quarrels now — let 's all make head — 

You drove the poor Ox mad I " 

As thus I sat in careless chat, 

With the morning's wet newspaper, 

In eager haste, without his hat, 

As blind and blundering as a bat, 

In came that fierce aristocrat, 
Our pursy woollen draper. 

And so my Muse perforce drew bit, 
And in he rush'd and panted : — 
" Well, have you heard ? " — " No ! not a whit.' 
" What ! han't you heard ? " — Come, out with it ! ' 
"That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt, 
And Sheridan 's ?•( 



presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: 
and five years ago, [ own I should have allowed and felt the 
force of this objection. But, alas ! explosion has succeeded 
explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new, and 
it is possible that now even a simple story .wholly uninspired with 
politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hub- 
bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time 
by the falls of Niagara, the lowest wh ispering becomes distinct 
ly audible. S. T. C. 

Dec. 21, 1799. 



XL LOVE POEMS. 



iQ,uas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in aevo. 

J*erlegis hie lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta 

Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus. 

Omnia paulatim consumit longior aetas, 

Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo. 

Ispe mihi coUatus enim non ille videbor : 

Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago, 

Voxque aliud sonat — 

Pectore nunc gelido calidosmiseremur amantes, 

Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus 

Mens horret relegensque alium putat ista locutum. 

Felrartli. 



INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE 
DARK LADIE. 

The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a 
somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for 
Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is pro- 
fessedly a. tale of ancient times,! trust that the affectionate 
lovers of venerable antiquity [as Camden says] will grant me 
their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force 
and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced 
against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, 
when novelties exvlode around us in all directions, he should 



O LEAVE the lily on its stem ; 

leave the rose upon the spray; 
O leave the elder bloom, fair maids! 

And listen to my lay. 

A cypress and a myrtle-bough 

This morn around my harp you twined. 
Because it fashion'd mournfully 

Its murmurs in the wind. 

And now a Tale of Love and Woe, 
A woful Tale of Love I sing ; 

Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs 
And trembles on the string. 

But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
It sighs and trembles most for thee ! 

come, and hear what cruel wrongs 
Befell the Dark Ladie. 

Few Sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stir this mortal frame. 

All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oh ! ever in my waking dreams, 

1 dwell upon that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I sate. 

Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight; 

She stood and listen'd to my harp, 
Amid the ling'ring light. 

1 play'd a sad and doleful air, 

I sang an old and moving story— 
An old rude song, that fitted well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd wdth a flitting blush. 

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 

For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 

And how for ten long years he woo'd 
The Ladie of the Land : 

38 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



29 



I told her how he pined : and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sung another's love, 

Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush ; 

With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 

Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, 

And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day or night; 

And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, 
Through briers and swampy mosses beat ; 

How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs. 
And low stubs gored his feet ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 

And sometimes from the darksome shade, 

And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade ; 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An Angel beautiful and bright ; 

And how he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And how, unknowing what he did. 

He leapt amid a lawless band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 

The Ladie of the Land ! 

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; 

And how she tended him in vain — 
And meekly strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain : 

And how she nursed him in a cave ; 

And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 

A dying man he lay ; 

His dying words — but when I reach'd 
That tend'rest strain of all the ditty. 

My falt'ring voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve ; 

The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes and fears that kindle hope. 

An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 

Subdued and cherish'd long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 

She blush'd with love and maiden-shame ; 
And, like the murmurs of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 

1 saw her bosom heave and swell. 
Heave and swell with inward sighs— 

I could not choose but love to see 
Her gentle bosom rise. 



Her wet cheek glow'd : she stept aside. 
As conscious of my look she stepp'd ; 

Then suddenly, with tim'rous eye, 
She flew to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She press'd me with a meek embrace ; 

And bending back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 't was a bashful art, 

That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 

And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride. 

And now once more a tale of woe, 

A woeful tale of love I sing : 
For thee, my Genevieve ! it sighs. 

And trembles on the string. 

When last I sang the cruel scorn 

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, 

And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day or night ; 

I promised thee a sister tale 

Of man's perfidious cruelty : 
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong 

Befell the Dark Ladie. 



LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN 
LOVE-CHAUNT. 

At midnight by the stream I roved* 
To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The moon was high, the moonlight gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far. 
The rock half-shelter'd from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

I saw a cloud of palest hue. 

Onward to the moon it pass'd ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
With floating colors not a few. 

Till it reach'd the moon at last : 
Then the cloud was wholly bright 
With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek 

And with such joy I find my Lewti : 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind. 
If Lewti never will be kind. 

39 



30 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The little cloud — it floats away, 

Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray — 

Away it passes from the moon ! 
How mournfully it seems to fly. 

Ever fading more and more, 
To joyless regions of the sky — 

And now 't is whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be, 

When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
A dying man for love of thee. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
And yet thou didst not look unkind. 

T saw a vapor in the sky, 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above, 
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd 
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 

Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread, 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous Birds ! methinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 

beauteous Birds ! 't is such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lewti lies. 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyruith to thread, 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my sight. 
As these tw^o swans together heave 
On the gently swelling wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 

And dreamt that I had died for care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem, 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
1795. 



THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S 
RESOLUTION. 

Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 



O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorls ; while oft unseen, 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, 
I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust. 
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quell'd, 
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
The fir-trees, and the imfrequent slender oak. 
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 
Here too the lovelorn man who, sick in soul. 
And of this busy human heart aweary, 
Worships the spirit of imconscious life 
In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle Lunatic ! 
If so he might not wholly cease to be. 
He would far rather not be that, he is ,• 
But would be something, that he knows not of. 
In winds or waters, or among the roclts ! 

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion 
here ! 
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn 
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at mom 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, 
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, 
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
His little Godship, making him perforce 
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back 

This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
With -my own fancies play the merry fool. 
And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
Here will I seat myself, beside this old, 
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twdne 
Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch my 

limbs, 

Close by this river, in this silent shade. 
As safe and sacred from tlie step of man 
As an invisible world — unheard, unseen. 
And list'ning only to the pebbly brook 
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound ; 
Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk 
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me. 
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, 
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
Ne'er play'd the wanton — never half-disclosed 
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth. 
Who ne'er henceforth may see an asi)en-grove 
40 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



31 



Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, 
That swells its little breast, so full of song, 
Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
And thou too, desert Stream ! no pool of thine, 
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, 
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, 
The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
On the bare branch of half uprooted tree, 
That leans towards its mirror ! Who ere while 
Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by 

stealth 
(For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now 
With stedfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, 
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, 
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells : 
And suddenly, as one that toys with time. 
Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm 
Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile. 
Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes ! 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold 
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there, 
And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leari'd 
On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 
Homeward she steals through many a woodland 

maze 
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook, 
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, 
The Naiad of the Mirror ! 

Not to thee. 
' O wild and desert Stream ! belongs this tale : 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, 
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : 
Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream! 

This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 
I rise and trace its devious course. O lead. 
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs. 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
Dart off asunder vdth an angry sound, 
How soon to reunite ! And see ! they meet, 
Each in the other lost and found : and see 



Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 

Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye ! 

With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds. 

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 

Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; 

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 

I pass forth into light — I find myself 

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful , 

Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods). 

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 

The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills 

Fold in behind each other, and so make 

A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem. 

With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, 

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, 

The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, 

Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. 

How solemnly the pendent ivy mass 

Swings in its winnow : all the air is calm. 

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with 

light, 
Rises in columns ; from this house alone, 
Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 
And close beside its porch a sleeping child. 
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog — 
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand 
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. 
A curious picture, with a master's haste 
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 
Peel'd from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries 
Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 
On the fine sldn ! She has been newly here ; 
And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch^^ — 
The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 
For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, 
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 
Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 
More beautiful than whom Alcseus wooed, 
The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
O child of genius ! stately, beautiful. 
And full of love to all, save only me. 
And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 
Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 
On to her father's house. She is alone ! 
The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 
And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn 
To keep the relic ? 't will but idly feed 
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 
The picture in my hand which she has left, 
She cannot blame me that I follow'd her ; 
And I may be her guide the long wood through. 



THE NIGHT-SCENE. 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

SANDOVAL. 

You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ! 
41 



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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



EARL HENRY. 
SANDOVAL. 

Did you not say you woo'd her ? 

EARL HENRY. 

Her whom I dared not woo ! 



Loved? 



Once I loved 



SANDOVAL. 

And woo'd, perchance, 
One whom you loved not ! 

EARL HENRY. 

Oh ! I were most base, 
Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her, 
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
Met my advances with impassion'd pride, 
That kindled love with love. And when her sire, 
Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd 
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 
My suit with insult, and in memory 
Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head. 
Her blessings overtook and baffled them ! 
But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 



Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
But Oropeza — 

EARL HENRY. 

Blessings gather round her ! 
Within this wood there winds a secret passage. 
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden — 
The night ere my departure to the army, 
She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, 
And to that covert by a silent stream, 
Which, with one star reflected near its marge, 
Was the sole object visible around me. 
No leaflet stirr'd ; the air was almost sultry ; 
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
No leaflet stirr'd ; — yet pleasure hung upon 
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
A little further on an arbor stood. 
Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led 

me, 
To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled — 
I heard her heart beat — ^if 't were not my own. 

SANDOVAL. 

A rude and scaring note, my friend ! 

EARL HENRY. 

Oh! no! 
I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy. 
The stars above our heads were dim and steady. 
Like eyes suflTused with rapture. Life was in us : 
We were all life, each atom of our frames 
A living soul — I vow'd to die for her : 
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken. 



Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it: 
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear. 
Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure. 
Deep self-possession, nn intense repose. 

SANDOVAL (with a sarcastic smile). 
No other than as eastern sages paint. 
The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, 
Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking. 
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble. 
Relapses into bliss. 

EARL HENRY. 

Ah! was that bliis 
Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man ? 
For suddenly, impatient of its silence. 
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them. 
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice. 
Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ? 
I swore, and with an inward thought that seem*d 
The purpose and the substance of my being, 
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers.— 
Friend ! by that vidnding passage, to that bower 
I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her — 
Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment 
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye — 

[Earl Henry retires into the toooA 

SANDOVAL (alom). 
O Henry ! always strivest thou to be great 
By thine own act — ^yet art thou never great 
But by the inspiration of great passion. 
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they 

stand. 
As though they were the pillars of a temple. 
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! 
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
Is fled : the mighty columns v/ere but sand. 
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, 

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF 
HER INNOCENCE. 

Myrtle-leap that, ill besped. 

Finest in the gladsome ray, 
Soil'd beneath the common tread. 

Far from thy protecting spray ! 

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf 
Whirr'd along the yellow vale. 

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf! 
Love the dalliance of the gale. 

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing ! 

Heave and flutter to his sighs. 
While the flatterer, on his wing, 

Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise. 
42 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



33 



Gaily from thy mother-stalk 

Wert thou danced and wafted high — 
Soon on this unshelter'd walk 

Flung to fade, to rot and die. 



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE 
THEATRE. 

Maiden, that with sullen brow 
Sittest behind those virgins gay, 

like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough. 
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May ! 

Him who lured thee and forsook, 

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze, 
Fearful saw his pleading look, 

Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 

Soft the glances of the youth, 
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; 

But no sound like simple truth. 
But no true love in his eye. 

Lothing thy polluted lot. 

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 

Seek thy weeping Mother's cot. 
With a wiser innocence. 

Thou hast known deceit and folly. 
Thou hast felt that vice is woe : 

With a musing melancholy 
Inly arm'd, go. Maiden ! ga 

Mother sage of Self dominion. 

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy ! 
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 

Is the memory of past folly. 

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn. 

While she moults the firstling plumes. 

That had skimm'd the tender corn, 
Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : 

Soon with renovated wing 

Shall she dare a loftier flight, 
Upward to the day-star spring. 

And embathe in heavenly light 



LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 

Nor cold, nor stem, my soul ! yet I detest 

These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, 

Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast. 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; 

But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain 
Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment. 

Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! 

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, 
While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, 
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 



O give me, from this heartless scene released, 
To hear our old musician, blind and gray 

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), 
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play 

By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, 
The while I dance amid the tedded hay 

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light 

Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide 

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees. 
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, 

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease. 
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 

But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers, 
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow. 

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, 
Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead, 

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees, 
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves. 
Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waver 

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 



THE KEEPSAKE. 

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, 
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark. 
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 
(In vain the darling of successful love) 
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years. 
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, 
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not ! * 
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I 

loved), 
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 

In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness. 
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung. 
Making a quiet image of disquiet 
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love. 
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd 



* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the 
Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve 
inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has 
the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergiss- 
mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden. 
43 



34 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name 
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, 
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood 
Has made me wish to steal away and weep). 
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
With which she promised, that when spring retum'd, 
She would resign one half of that dear name. 
And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 



TO A LADY. 

WITH falconer's " SHIPWRECK." 

Ah ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams. 
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; 

Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams, 
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood 

On cliif, or cataract, in Alpine dell ; 
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd. 

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ; 

Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings. 
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! 

Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings, 
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark ! 

" Cling to the shrouds ! " In vain ! The breakers 
roar — 

Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan 
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! 

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, 
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 

The elevating thought of sufTer'd pains, 

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the 
name 

Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend, 
Or absent or no more ! Shades of the Past, 

Which Love makes Suibstance ! Hence to thee I send, 
O dear as long as life and memory last ! 

I send with deep regards of heart and head. 

Sweet maid, for friendship form'd ! this work to 
thee : 

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed 
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. 

Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
How glad I am to see you here 

A lovely convalescent ; 
Risen from the bed of pain and fear, 

And feverish heat incessant. 

The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, 
The little Birds that warble high. 

Their vernal loves commencing. 
Will better welcome you than I 

With their sweet influencing. 



Believe me, while in bed you lay, 
Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter! 
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say 

How can we do without her ? 

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, 
They have no need of such as you 

In the place where you were going ; 
This World has angels all too few. 

And Heaven is overflowing ! 



SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY 
NATURAL. 

WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 

If I had but two little wings. 
And were a little feathery bird, 
To you I 'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things, 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I 'm always with you in my sleep ! 
The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
So I love to wake ere break of day : 
For though my sleep be gone, 
Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids. 
And still dreams on. 



HOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 

; 'T IS sweet to him, who all the week 
/ Through city-crowds must push his way, 
i To stroll alone through fields and woods, 
'^, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day 

And sweet it is, in summer bower. 

Sincere, affectionate, and gay, 
One's own dear children feasting round, 

To celebrate one's marriage-day. 

/i 

; |But what is all, to his delight, 
; 4 Who having long been doom'd to roam, 
j Throws off the bundle from his back, 
• 4 Before the door of his own home ? 

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; 

This feel I hourly more and more : 
There 's Healing only in thy wings, 

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore ! 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the 

Dove, 
The Linnet and Thrush, say, " I love and I love !" 
In the winter they 're silent — the wind is so strong , 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 

weather. 
And singing, and loving — all come back together 
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35 



But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he- 
*• I love my Love, and my Love loves me ! " 



THE VISIONARY HOPE. 

Sad lot. to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling 
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast. 
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing; 
That his sick body might have ease and rest; 
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest 
Against his will the stifling load revealing, 
Though Nature fprced ; though like some captive guest, 
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 
An alien's restless mood but half concealing, 
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd. 
Sickness within and miserable feeling: 
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams. 
And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain. 
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams, 
Yet never could his heart command, though fain, 
One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 

That Hope, which was his inward bhss and boast. 
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood. 
Though changed in nature, wander where he would — 
For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! 
For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan, 
He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
(So the love-stricken visionary deems) 
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, 
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! 
Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 



I 



THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee 
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 

A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life. 
Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 

With happiness beyond desert. 
That gladness half requests to weep! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense 

And unalarming turbulence 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting. 

From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 

But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 
And into tenderness soon dying. 

Wheel out their giddy moment, then 

Resign the soul to love again. 

A more precipitated vein 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 

And leave the sweeter under-strain 



Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 



RECOLLECnONS OF LOVE. 

How warm this woodland wild Recess! 
Love surely hath been breathing here. 
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 

Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress, 
As if to have you yet more near. 

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float here and there, like things astray. 
And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills. 

No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name; yet why 
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? 

That sense of promise everywhere? 
Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 

As when a mother doth explore 

The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild! 

As whom I long had loved before — 
So deeply, had I been beguiled. 

You stood before me like a thought, 
A dream remember'd in a dream. 
But when those meek eyes first did seem 

To tell me, Love within you wrought — 
O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 
Has not Love's whisper evermore. 
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? 

Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
Dear under-song in Clamor's hour. 



ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER 
LONG ABSENCE, 

UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO 
BATHE. 

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean! 

How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion. 

And men rejoicing on thy shore. 

Dissuading spake the mild Physician, 

" Those briny waves for thee are Death ! " 

But ray soul fulfill 'd her mission. 

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath.' 

Fashion's pining sons and daughters. 
That seek the crowd they seem to fly, 

Trembling they approach thy waters; 
And what cares Nature, if they die ? 

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 

A thousand recollections bland. 
Thoughts sublime, and stately measures 

Revisit on thy echoing strand: 
45 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Dreams (the soul herself forsaking), 
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 

Silent adorations, making 

A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 

O ye hopes, that stir within me, 

Health comes with you from above! 

God is with me, God is in me ! 
I cannot die, if life be Love. 



THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS. 

Cupid, if storying legends* tell aright. 

Once framed a rich elixir of delight. 

A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, 

And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd : 

With these the magic dews, which evening brings, 

Brush'd from the Idahan star by faery wings : 

Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd. 

Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind — 

Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow. 

And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe. 

The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, 

The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs ; 

Sweet sounds transpired, as when th'enamour'ddove 

Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love. 

The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame, 

And " Kisses " was the precious compound's name. 

With half the god his Cyprian mother blest, 

And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 



IIL MEDITATIVE POEMS, 



IN BLANK VERSE. 



Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived. 
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man. 
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life 
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead: 
Naught sinks into the Bosom's silent depth. 
Q,uick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure 
Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul 
Warmeth the inner frame. 

Schiller. 



HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE 
OF CHAMOUNY. 

Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have tfieir 
sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous tonents 
rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers, 
the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its 
"flowers of loveliest blue." 



Hast thou a charm to stay the Moming-Star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 



* Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem 

Basia lasciva Cypria Diva mana. 
Ambrosiae succos occulta temperat arte, 

Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus. 
Suflicit et partem mellis, quod subdolus oUm 

Non impune favis surripuisset Amor. 
Decussos violas foliis ad miscet odorea 

Et spolia aestivis plurima rapta rosis. 
Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores, 

Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet. 
Ex his composuit Dea basia; et omnia libans 

Invenias nitidie sparsa per ora Cloes 

Carm. auod. Vol. 11. 



On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form! 
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in praye» 

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, 
Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy ; 
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven I 



Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! , ' 
Green vales and icy cliffi, all join my Hjrran. 

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale! 
O struggling wdth the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink s 
Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ' 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever? ' ' 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came). 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! 
46 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



37 



Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffiised with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising sun 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



LINES 



WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE 
HARTZ FOREST. 

I STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw 

Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 

A surging scene, and only limited 

By the blue distance. Heavily my way 

Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore, 

Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 

Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard, 

The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound ; 

And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, 

Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 

From many a note of many a waterfall, 

And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 

The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 

Leap'd frolicsome, or old romantic goat 

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 

In low and languid mood :t for I had found 

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 

Their finer influence from the Life within : 

Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague 

Or miconceming, where the Heart not finds 

History or prophecy of Friend, or Child, 

Or gentle Maid, our first and early love, 

Or Father, or the venerable name 

Of our adored Country ! O thou Queen, 

Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 

O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 

Tum'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds 

Thy sands and high white cliiTs ! 



♦ The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North 
Gennany. \ 



/ 



-When I have gazed 



t 

From some high eminence on goodly vales. 
And cots and villages embower'd below, 
The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. 

SoutMy''s HyWH to the P^naUs. 



My native land ! 
Fill'd with the thought of thee this heart v/as proud. 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, 
Floated away, like a departing dream, 
Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
That God is everywhere ! the God who framed 
Mankind to be one mighty Family, 
Himself our Father, and die World our Home. 



ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST 01 
FEBRUARY, 1796. 

Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 

Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort 

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering 

month 
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon the© 
With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower! 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, 
E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. 
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth, 
Nipp'd by Consumption 'mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa's Bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, 
Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to earth ? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, 
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? 
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine. 
And mock my boding ! Dim simiUtudes 
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master! 
And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize 
The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh 
Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument: 



THE EOLIAN HARP. 

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek rechned 

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 

With white-flower' d Jasmin, and the broad-leaved 

Myrtle, 
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so 

hush'd ! 
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 
Tells us of Silence. 

And that simplest Lute, 
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
How by the desultory breeze caress 'd, 
like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. 



* Chatterton. 



47 



38 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 

the one life within us and abroad, 
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
A light in sound, a soimd-like power in light. 
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere — 
Methinks, it should have been impossible 

Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch ray limbs at noon. 
Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, 
And many idle flitting phantasies. 
Traverse my indolent and passive brain, 
As vsdld and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

/ And what if all of animated nature 
•C Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
\ That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, 

(Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, 
^ At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject, 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak of him, 
The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 

1 praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
Who with his saving mercies healed me, 

A sinful and most miserable Man, 
Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honor'd Maid ! 



REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE 
OF RETIREMENT. 



Sermoni propriora. — Hor. 



Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear, 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the Porch 
Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round 



Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call ' 

The Valley of Seclusion ! once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen : raethought, it calm'd 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feelings ; for he paused, and look'd 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,^ 
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again, 
And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed place. 
And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
(Viewless or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings), in whisper'd tones 
I 've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
The inobtrusive song of Happiness, 
Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, 
And the Heart listens ! " 

But the time, when first 
From that low dell, steep up the stony Mount 
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top. 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak Mount, 
The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; 
And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, 
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey and the Wood,. 
And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire ; 
The Channel there, the Islands and white Sails, 
Dim Coasts, and cloud-like Hills, and shoreless 

Ocean — 
It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
Had built him there a Temple : the whole World 
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference, ' 

No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 

Ah ! quiet dell ; dear cot, and Mount sublime I 
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right, 
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, 
That I should dream away the intrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of One he lifts from Earth : 
And He that works me good with unmoved face^ 
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, 
My Benefactor, not my Brother Man ! 
Yet even this, this cold beneficence. 
Praise, praise it, O ray Soul I oft as thou scann'st 
The Sluggard Pity's vision- weaving tribe .' 
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, / 
Nursing in some delicious solitude 
Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies ! 
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand. 
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ, 

Yet oft, when after honorable toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream. 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose. 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond vvdshes — sweet Abode 1 
48 



SIBYLIJNE LEAVES. 



39 



Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come ! 



TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE OF 
OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON. 

WITH SOME POEMS. 



Notus in fratres animi paterni. 

Hor. Carm. lib. i. 2. 



(if A BLESSED lot hath he, who having pass'd 
I His youth and early manhood in the stir 
I And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 
I; With cares that move, not agitate the heart, 
} To the same dwelling where his father dwelt ; 
I And haply views his tottering little ones 
f Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap, 

LOn which first kneeling his own infancy 
JLisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend ! 
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
At distance did ye climb Life's upland road. 
Yet cheer'd and cheering : now fraternal love 
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 

To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
A different fortune and more different mind — 
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light 
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd 
Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life 
Chasing chance-started Friendships. A brief while 
Some have preserved me from Life's pelting ills ; 
But, Hke a tree with leaves of feeble stem. 
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
Dropp'd the collected shower ; and some most false, 
False and fair fohaged as the Manchineel, 
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
E 'en 'mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps, 
Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 
That I woke poison'd ! But, all praise to Him 
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
Permanent shelter ; and beside one Friend, 
Beneath th' impervious covert of one Oak, 
I 've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
Of Husband and of Father ; nor unhearing 
Of that divine and nightly- whispering Voice, 
Which from my childhood to maturer years 
Spa,ke to me of predestinated wreaths, 
. Bright with no fading colors ! 

Yet at times 

/My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life 
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart 
AJ- mine own home and birth-place : chiefly then, 
- When I remember thee, my earliest Friend ! 
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; 
Didst trace my wanderings with a Father's eye ; 
And boding evil, yet still hoping good. 
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
Sorrow'd in silence ! He who counts alone 
The beatings of the solitary heart, 
That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 
G 



Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee ! 

Oh ! 't is to me an ever-new delight. 

To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 

Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash. 

Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 

Or when as now, on some delicious eve, 

We, in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot. 

Sit on the tree crooked earthward; whose old boughs, 

That hang above us in an arborous roof, 

Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May, 

Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, 
When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear 
To ray wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind. 
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
Cope with the tempest's swell ! 

These various strains, 
Which I have framed in many a various mood, 
Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 
Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
If aught of Error or intemperate Truth 
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. 

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 

Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharm'd 

May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 

The small round basin, which this jutting stone 

Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 

Send up cold waters to the traveller 

With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, 

Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page. 

As meny and no taller, dances still. 

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 

Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 

Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree. 

Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart 

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound. 

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees! 



A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 

'T is true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 
(So call him, for so minghng blame with praise. 
And smiles with anxious looks, his earhest friends, 
Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal) 
'T is true that, passionate for ancient truths. 
And honoring with religious love the Great 
Of elder times, he hated to excess, 
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
The hollow puppets of a hollow age. 
Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
Its worthless Idols ! Learning, Power, and Time, 
(Too much of ail) thus wasting in vain war 
49 



40 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 't is true, 

Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, 

Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 

But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, 

And with a natural gladness, he maintain'd 

The citadel unconquer'd, and in joy 

Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 

For not a hidden Path, that to the Shades 

Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads, 

Lurk'd undiscover'd by him ; not a rill 

There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 

But he had traced it upward to its source. 

Through open glade, dark glen, and secret delL 

Knew the gay wild-flowers on its banks, and cull'd 

Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 

Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 

The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, 

He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 

Sparkle as erst they sparkled to the flame 

Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 

O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 

O studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 

Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death, 

Yet docile, childlike, full of life and love ! 

Here, rather than on monumental stone, 

This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, 

Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 



THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. 



In the June of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a visit 
to the Author's Cottage ; and on the morning of their ar- 
rival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from 
walking during the whole time of their stay. One Evening, 
when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the 
following lines in the Garden Bower. 



Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
This Lime-tree bower my prison I I have lost 
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age 
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, mean- 
while. 
Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge, 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told : 
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 
And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
Where its slim trunk the Ash from rock to rock 
Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless Ash, 
Unsurm'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 
Fann'd by the waterfall ! and there my friends 
Behold the dark-green file of long lank weeds,* 
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
Of the blue clay-stone. 

Now, my Friends emerge 
Beneath the wide wide Heaven-*— and view again 
The many-steepled tract magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. 
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 



The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two isles 

Of purple shadow ! Yes, they wander on 

In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad, 

My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 

And hunger'd after Nature, many a year. 

In the great city pent, winning thy way 

With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 

And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 

Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 

Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 

Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! 

Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 

And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my Friend, 

Struck with deep joy, may stand, as I have stood. 

Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 

On the wdde landscape, gaze till all doth seem 

Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 

As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes 

Spirits perceive his presence. 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower, 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd 
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
Dappling its sunshine ! And that Walnut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
Full on the ancient Ivy, which usurps 
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass. 
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
Through the late twilight : and though now the Bat 
Wheels silent by, and not a Swallow twitters, 
Yet still the solitary Humble-Bee 
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure : 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
'T is well to be bereft of promised good, 
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate 
With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last Rook 
Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming its black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory. 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still, 
Flew creaking! o'er thy head, and had a charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 



» The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some countries 
the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue ; but With- 
ering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the 
Ophioglossum only. 



TO A FRIEND 

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OP WRITING 
NO MORE POETRY. 

Dear Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween 
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 



t Some months after I had written this line, it gave me plea- 
sure to observe that Bartram had observed the same circum- 
stance of the Savanna Crane. " When these Birds move 
their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and 
50 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



41 



Uight Castalie: and (surenes of thy faith) 
That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 
And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 
The world's low cares and lying vanities, 
Stedfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 
And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy. 
, Yes — thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand 
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son : 
And with those recreant unbaptized heels 
Thou 'rt flying from thy bounden ministeries — 
So sore it seems and burthensome a task 
To weave un withering flowers ! But take thou heed : 
For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed Boy, 
And I have arrows* mystically dipp'd. 
Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ? 
And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth 
" Without the meed of one melodious tear?" 
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard, 
Who to the " Illustrioust of his native land 
" So properly did look for patronage." 
Ghost of Mascenas ! hide thy blushing face ! 
They snatch'd him from the Sickle and the Plow — 
To gauge Ale-Firkins. 

Oh ! for shame return ! 
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount, 
There stands a lone and melancholy tree, 
Whose aged branches in the midnight blast 
Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough. 
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled, 
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb. 
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow. 
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers 
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit. 
These with stopp'd nostril and glove-guarded hand 
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility. 

1796. 



TO A GENTLEMAN. 

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION 
OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL 
MIND. 

Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 

Into my heart have I received that lay 

More than historic, that prophetic lay. 

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 

Of the foundations and the building up 

Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 

What may be told, to the understanding mind 

Revealable ; and what within the mind. 

By vital breathings secret as the soul 

Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 

Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 

Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth). 



regular ; and even when at a considerable distance or high 
above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers ; their shafts and 
webs upon one another creak as the joints or working of a 
vessel in a tempestuous sea." 

* Vide Pind. Olymp. iii. 1. 156. 

t Verbatim from Burns's dedication of his Poema to the No- 
bility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. 



Of tides obedient to external force, 

And currents self-determined, as might seem. 

Or by some inner Power ; of moments awful. 

Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 

When Power stream'd from thee, and thy soul 

received 
The light reflected, as a light bestow'd — 
Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in Vales and Glens 
Native or outland. Lakes and famous Hills ! 
Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars 
Were rising ; or by secret Mountain-streams, 
The Guides and the Companions of thy way ! 

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man, 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the Main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow. 
Amid a mighty nation jubilant. 
When from the general heart of human-kind 
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity! 

Of that dear Hope aflflicted and struck down, 

So summon'd homeward, thenceforth calm and sure. 

From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute Self^ 

With light un waning on her eyes, to look 

Far on — herself a glory to behold. 

The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 

Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice. 

Action and Joy ! — An orphic song indeed, 

A song divine of high and passionate thoughts. 

To their own music chanted ! 

O great Bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
With stedfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great 
Have all one age, and from one visible space 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. 
Are permanent, and Time is not with them. 
Save as it worketh far them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old. 
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
Of Truth profound a sweet continuoiis lay. 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
Ah ! as I listen'd wdth a heart forlorn. 
The pulses of my being beat anew : 
And even as life returns upon the drown'd. 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 
Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope ; 
And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear , 
Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain. 
And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
And all which I had cuU'd in wood-walks wild, 
And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all. 
Commune with thee had open'd out — but flowers 
Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me. 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, 
51 



42 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Singing of Glory, and Futurity, 
To wander back on such unhealthful road, 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
Strew'd before thy advancing ! 

Nor do thou, 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
Of my communion with thy nobler mind 
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long ! 
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh 
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, 
The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve, 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd 
And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
In silence Hstening, like a devout child, 
My soul lay passive, by the various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
With momentary Stars of my own birth, 
Fair constellated Foam,* still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, 
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 

And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
Thy long sustained song finally closed. 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
That happy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or Aspiration ? or Resolve ?) 
Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 



THE NIGHTINGALE : 

A CONVERSATION POEM; 

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798. 

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day 
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
Come, we vnW rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 
But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim. 
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 



Most musical, most melancholy "t bird ! 
A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! 
In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 

pierced 
With tlie reiiienibrance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
(And so, poor Wretch ! filled all things with himself. 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow), he and such as he, 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs 
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
By Sun or Moon-light, to the influxes 
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
And of his frame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality, 
A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 't will not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still. 
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'T is the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night \ 

Would be too short for him to utter forth \ 

His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, ( 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
And the trim wallis are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the path 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many Nightingales ; and far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 

and full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 



* " A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 
coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars 
of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every 
now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam 
darted ofl" from the vessel's side, each with its own small con- 
stellation, over the sea, and scoured out of siftht like a Tartar 
troop over a wilderness."— 77ie Friend, p. 'i20. 



t This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior 
to that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the 
melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The 
author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge 
of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton : a charge than 
which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that 
of having ridiculed his Bible. 

52 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



43 



A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ,• she laiows all their 

notes. 
That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon 
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
And to that motion tune his wanton song 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ? 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well 
The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once. 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears 
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Fmniliar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy ! Once more, farewell, 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell. 



FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'T is calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood. 
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings on of life. 
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate. 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
Making it a companionable form, 
Whose puny flaps and frealis the idling Spirit 



By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But O ! how oft, 
How oft, at school, with most believing mind 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, 
Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams ! 
And so I brooded all the following morn. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book : 
Save if the door half-open'd, and I gnatch'd 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up. 
For still I hoped to see the stranger'' s face, 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 
And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, ; 

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars- 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teaeh 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops 

fall 
Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 



TO A FRIEND. 

TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM 

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme 
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart 
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 

53 



44 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I ask not now, my friend ! the aiding verse, 
Tedious to thee, and from my anxious thought 
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 
From business wand'ring far and local cares. 
Thou creepest round a dear-loved Sister's bed 
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 
Soothing each pang with fond sohcitude, 
And tenderest tones medicinal of love. 

I too a Sister had, an only Sister 

She loved me dearly, and I doted on her ! 
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows 
(As a sick patient in his nurse's arms), 
And of the heart those hidden maladies 
That shrink ashamed from even Friendship's eye. 
Oh ! I have woke at midnight, and have wept 
Because she was not ! — Cheerily, dear Charles ! 
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year : 
Such warm presages feel I of high Hope. 
For not uninterested the dear maid 
I've view'd — her soul affectionate yet wise, 
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories, 
That play around a sainted infant's head. 
He Itnows (the Spirit that in secret sees. 
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
Aught to implore* were impotence of mind) 
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne. 
Prepared, when he his healing ray vouchsafes, 
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart. 
And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's joy ! 
December, 1794. 



THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. 
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE. 

Dim hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar, 
O rise and yoke the turtles to thy car ! 
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, 
And give me to the bosom of my love ! 
My gentle love, caressing and carest, 
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ; 
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes. 
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs : 
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, 
Like melted rubies, o'er my palhd cheek. 
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May 
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day ; 
Young Day, returning at her promised hour. 
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav'rite flower ; 
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, 
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. 
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : 
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals ! 



LINES TO JOSEPH COTTLE. 

My honor'd friend ! whose verse concise, yet clearj 
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense, 
May your fame fadeless live, as " never-sere " 
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence 



* I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines 
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love 
Aught to implore were impotence of mind, 
It being written in Scripture, "Jlsk, and it shall be given you," 
and ray human reason being moreover convinced of the pro- 
priety o( ofkring petitions as well as thanksgivings to the Deity. 



Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence! 

For, like that nameless riv'let stealing by, 

Your modest verse, to musing Quiet dear, 

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd : the charm'd eye 

Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky. 

Circling the base of the Poetic mount 

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow 

Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount : 

The vapor-poison'd birds, that fly too low, 

Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. 

Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet. 

Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow. 

Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, 

A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet. 

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast, 
That like some giant-king, o'erglooms the hill ; 
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast 
Makes solemn music ! But th' unceasing rill 
To the soft wren or lark's descending trill 
Murmurs sweet under-song 'mid jasmin bowers. 
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will, 
I ween, you wander'd — there collecting flow'rs 
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers ! 

There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb 
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues ;* 
And to that holier chaplett added bloom. 
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. 

But lo ! your HendersonJ awakes the Muse 

His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height ! 
You left the plain and soar'd 'mid richer views ' 
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light. 
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of 
night! 

Still soar, my friend, those richer views among, 
Strong, rapid, fervent flashing Fancy's beam ! 
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song ; 
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme : 
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam, 
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around ! 
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream. 
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, 
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest- 
honor'd groimd. 



IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE THREE GRAVES. 
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE. 



[The Author has published the following humble fragment, 
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one 
of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was in- 
tended to be dramatic ; that is, suited to the narrator : and the 
metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is there- 
fore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a com- 
mon Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adop- 
tion of such a style, in any metrical composition not profess 
edly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all 
events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way con- 
nected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction. 
Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological. The story 



♦ War, a Fragment. t John the Baptist, a Poem. 

t Monody on John Henderson. 

54 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



45 



which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and 
second parts, is as follows. 

Edward, a young farmer, meets, at the house of Ellen, her 
bosom-friend, Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which 
ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the 
advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes 
and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering 
on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession 
of a competent property, and from having had no other children 
but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their in- 
fancy), retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions 
and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education 
and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned 
to Edward's application was remarkable — "Well, Edward! 
you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my 
Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the 
Mother's eye; and, inline, she became herself enamoured of her 
future Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment 
and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to 
herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no 
very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the 
names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters 
of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, how- 
ever, though perplexed by her strange detraction from her 
daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart 
still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection ! 
she, at length overcome by her miserable passion, after much 
abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with 
violent emotion — "O Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for 
you — she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I 
that love you ! Marry me, Edward ! and I will this very day 
settle all my property on you." — The Lover's eyes were now 
opened ; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect 
of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on 
his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense 
of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, 
he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated 
by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a 
loud voice' that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse 
both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in 
the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her 
Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing 
the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her 
off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her 
part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married 
to him. — And here the third part of the Tale begins. 

I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to 
tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that 
I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, 
I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from 
finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagi- 
nation, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I 
had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the 
Oby Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and 
Hearne's deeply interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on 
the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who 
have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of re- 
ferring to those works for the passages alluded to), and I con- 
ceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not 
peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the 
mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the pro- 
gress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy. from the 
beginning. 

[The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a 
country church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been 
awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each 
other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the 
first of these were the name, and dates, as usual : on the second, 
no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is 
infinite.] 



« • • • • 

« • • • • 



PART III. 

The grapes upon the vicar's wall 
Were ripe as ripe could be ; 

And yellow leaves in sun and wind 
Were falling from the tree. 



On the hedge elms in the narrow lane 
Still swung the spikes of corn : 

Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
Young Edward's marriage-morn. 

Up through that wood behind the church. 
There leads from Edward's door . 

A mossy track, all over-bough'd 
For half a mile or more. 

And from their house-door by that track 
The Bride and Bridegroom went ; 

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, 
Seem'd cheerful and content. 

But when they to the church-yard came, 

I 've heard poor Mary say, 
As soon as she stepp'd into the sun, 

Her heart it died away. 

And when the vicar join'd their hands, 
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 

But' when they pray'd, she thought she saw 
Her mother on her knees. 

And o'er the church-path they retum'd — 

I saw poor Mary's back, 
Just as she stepp'd beneath the boughs 

Into the mossy track. 

Her feet upon the mossy track 

The married maiden set : 
That moment — I have heard her say — 

She wish'd she could forget. 

The shade o'erflush'd her limbs with heat — 

Then came a chill like death : 
And when the merry bells rang out, 

They seem'd to stop her breath. 

Beneath the foulest Mother's curse 

No child could ever thrive : 
A Mother is a Mother still. 

The holiest thing alive. 

So five month's pass'd : the Mother still 

Would never heal the strife ; 
But Edward was a loving man. 

And Mary a fond wife. 

" My sister may not visit us, 
My mother says her nay : 

Edward ! you are all to me, 

1 wish for your sake I could be 

More lifesome and more gay. 

" I 'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed 

I know I have no reason! 
Perhaps 1 am not well in health. 

And 't is a gloomy season." 

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow! 

And on the few fine days 
She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet 

Her Motlier in her ways. 

But Ellen, spite of miry ways 

And weather dark and dreary. 
Trudged every day to Edward's house, 

And made them all more cheery. 
55 



46 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh! Ellen was a faithful Friend, 

More dear than any Sister! 
As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, 

And then they always miss'd her. 

And now Ash- Wednesday came — that day 

But few to church repair : 
For on that day you know we read 

The Commination prayer. 

Our late old vicar, a kind man, 

Once, Sir, he said to me. 
He wish'd that service was clean out 

Of our good Liturgy. 

The Mother walk'd into the church — 

To Ellen's seat she went ; 
Though Ellen always kept her church, 

All church-days during Lent 

And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
With courteous looks and mild. 

Thought she " what if her heart should melt 
And all be reconciled ! " 

The day was scarcely like a day — 
The clouds were black outright : 

And many a night, with half a Moon, 
I've seen the church more light. 

The wind was wild ; against the glass 

The rain did beat and bicker ; 
The church-tower swinging overhead. 

You scarce could hear the vicar ! 

And then and there the Mother knelt, 

And audibly she cried — 
" Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 

This woman by my side ! 

** O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, 
Although you take my life — 

curse this woman, at whose house 
Young Edward woo'd his wife. 

" By night and day, in bed and bower, 

O let her cursed be ! ! ! " 
So having pray'd, steady and slow. 

She rose up from her knee ! 
And left the church, nor e'er again 

The church-door enter'd she. 

1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still. 

So pale ! I guess'd not why : 
When she stood up, there plainly was 
A trouble in her eye. 

And when the prayers were done, we all 
Came round and ask'd her why : 

Giddy she seem'd, and sure there was 
A trouble in her eye. 

But ere she from the church-door stepp'd, 

She smiled and told us why ; 
* It was a wicked woman's curse," 

Quoth she, " and what care I ? " 



She smiled, and smiled, and pass'd it off 
Ere from the door she stept — 

But all agree it would have been 
Much better had she wept. 

And if her heart was not at ease. 

This was her constant cry — 
" It was a wicked woman's curse — 

God 's good, and what care I ? " 

There was a hurry in her looks. 
Her struggles she redoubled : 

" It was a wicked woman's curse. 
And why should I be troubled ?" 

These tears will come — I dandled her 
When 'twas the merest fairy — 

Good creature ! and she hid it all : 
She told it not to Mary, 

But Mary heard the tale : her arms 
Roimd Ellen's neck she threw ; 

" O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, 
And now she hath cursed you ! " 

I saw young Edward by himself 

Stalk fast adown the lea. 
He snatch'd a stick from every fence, 

A twig from every tree. 

He snapp'd them still with hand or knee, 

And then away they flew ! 
As if with his uneasy limbs 

He knew not what to do ! 

You see, good Sir ! that sragle hill ? 

His farm lies underneath : 
He heard it there, he heard it all 

And only gnash'd his teeth. 

Now Ellen was a darling love 

In all his joys and cares : 
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
Fast link'd they both together came, 

Whene'er he said his prayers. 

And in the moment of his prayers 

He loved them both alike : 
Yea, both sweet names vdth one sweet joy 

Upon his heart did strike ! 

He reach'd his home, and by his loolcs 

They saw his inward strife : 
And they clung round him with their arms, 

Both Ellen and his wife. 

And Mary could not check her tears, 

So on his breast she bow'd ; 
Then Frenzy melted into Grief, 

And Edward wept aloud. 

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 

But closelier did she cling, 
And turn'd her face, and look'd as if 

She saw some frightful thing. 
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47 





And once her both arms suddenly 


PART IV. 


Round Mary's neck she flung. 


To see a man tread over graves 
I hold it no good mark; 


And her heart panted, and she felt 
The words upon her tongue. 


'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, 




And bad luck in the dark ! 


She felt them coming, but no power 




Had she the words to smother ; 


You see that grave ? The Lord he gives, 
The Lord, he takes away ; 


And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
" Oh Christ ! you 're hke your Mother ! " 


Sir! the child of my old age 




Lies there as cold as clay. 


So gentle Ellen now no more 




Could make this sad house cheery; 


Except that grave, you scarce see one 


And Mary's melancholy ways 


That was not dug by me : 


Drove Edward wild and weary. 


I'd rather dance upon 'em all 




Than tread upon these three! 


Lingering he raised his latch at eve. 




Though tired in heart and limb : 


" Ay, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale," 


He loved no other place, and yet 


You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 


Home was no home to him. 


This month I 'm in my seventieth year, 




And still it makes me sad. 


One evening he took up a book. 




And nothing in it read ; 


And Mary's sister told it me. 


Then flung it down, and groaning, cried, 


For three good hours and more ; 


" Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead." 


Though I had heard it, in the main, 




From Edward's self, before. 


Mary look'd up into his face. 




And nothing to him said ; 


Well ! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen 


She tried to smile, and on his arm 


Did well nigh dote on Mary ; 


Mournfully lean'd her head. 


And she went oftener than before. 




And Mary loved her more and more : 


And he burst into tears, and fell 


She managed all the dairy. 


Upon his Imees in prayer : 




" Her heart is broke ! God ! my grief. 


To market she on market-days, 


It is too great to bear ! " 


To church on Sundays came ; 




All seem'd the same : all seem'd so. Sir ! 


'Twas such a foggy time as makes 


But all was not the same ! 


Old Sextons, Sir ! like me, 




Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 


Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh ! no ! 


Was late uncommonly. 


But she was seldom cheerful ; 




And Edward look'd as if he thought 


And then the hot days, all at once, 


That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 


They came, we know not how : 




You look'd about for shade, when scarce 


When by herself, she to herself 


A leaf was on a bough. 


Must sing some merry rhyme ; 




She could not now be glad for hours, 


It happen'd then ('twas in the bower 


Yet silent all the time. 


A furlong up the wood ; 




Perhaps you know the place, and yet 


And when she soothed her friend, through all 


I scarce know how you should), 


Her soothing words 'twas plain 




She had a sore grief of her own. 


No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 


A haunting in her brain. 


To any pasture-plot ; 




But cluster'd near the chattering brook. 


And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! 


Lone hollies mark'd the spot. 


And then her wrist she spann'd ; 




And once, when Mary was downcast. 


Those hollies of themselves a shape 


She took her by the hand. 


As of an arbor took. 


And gazed upon her, and at first 


A close, round arbor ; and it stands 


She gently press'd her hand ; 


Not three strides from a brook. 


Then harder, till her grasp at length 


Within this arbor, which was still 


Did gripe like a convulsion ! 


With scarlet berries hung. 


Alas! said she, we ne'er can be 


Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 


Made happy by compulsion ! 
H 


Just as the first bell rung. 

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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 

Deep in a woody dell. 

His limbs along the moss, his head 

Upon a mossy heap, 
With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
That brook e'en on a working day 

Might chatter one to sleep. 

And he had pass'd a restless night, 

And was not well in health ; 
The women sat down by his side, 

And talk'd as 'twere by stealth. 

" The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 

See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, 

JNo bigger than your e'e ; 



" A tiny sun, and it has got 

A perfect glory too ; 
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, 
Make up a glory, gay and bright. 

Round that small orb, so blue.* 



And then they argued of those rays, 

What color they might be : 
Says this, " they 're mostly green ;" says that, 

" They're amber-like to me." 



So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 
Were troubling Edward's rest ; 

But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 
And the thumping in his breast. 



" A Mother too ! " these self-same words 

Did Edward mutter plain ; 
His face was drawn back on itself. 

With horror and huge pain. 



Both groan'd at once, for both knew well 
What thoughts were in his mind ; 

When he waked up, and stared like one 
That hath been just struck blind. 

He sat upright ; and ere the dream 

Had had time to depart, 
" O God forgive me ! (he exclaira'd) 

I have torn out her heart." 



Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst 

Into ungentle laughter ; 
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat, 

And never she smiled after. 



Carmon reliquum in futurum tempua relegatum. To-morrow ! 
and To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! — 



DEJECTION; 



Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, 
With the old Moon in her arms ; 
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. 



I. 

Well ! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this ^olian lute. 
Which better far were mute. 
For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 
And overspread with phantom light, 
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) 
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling. 

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst 
they awed, 
And sent my soul abroad. 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 
live! 

n. 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky. 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen : 
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

III. 

My genial spirits fail, 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 

It were a vain endeavor. 

Though I should gaze for ever. 
On that green light that lingers in the west : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 

IV. 

O Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does nature live : 

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SIBYLUNE LEAVES. 



49 



Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth. 
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its ovm birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element I 

V. 

pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 
Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and 

Shower, 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud— 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 

All melodies the echoes of that voice. 
All colors a suffusion from that light 

VL 

There was a time when, though my path was 
rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress, 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine. 
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel. 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natiu*al Man — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul. 

VII. 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 
Reahty's dark dream ! 

1 turn from you, and listen to the wind, 

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out 
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest 
without, 

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 

* Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to 
the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of 
those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not 
appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and 
in a mountainous country. 



Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold I 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the 

cold ! 
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is 
over — [loud ! 

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
A tale of less affright. 
And temper'd with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
'T is of a Uttle child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother 
hear. 

VIII. 

'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling. 

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth ! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : 
To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole, 
Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 

O simple spirit, guided from above, 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 



ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF 
DEVONSHIRE, 

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER " PASSAGE 
OVER MOUNT GOTHARD." 



And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild ! 

Where Tell directed the avenging Dart, 
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child, 

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyxant's heart. 



Splendor's fondly foster'd child ! 
And did you hail the Platform wild, 

Where once the Austrian fell 

Beneath the shaft of Tell ? 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? 

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, 
From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man ; 
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear! 
Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear. 
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : 

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, 
With many a bright obtrusive form of art, 

Detain'd your eye from nature : stately vests, 
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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, 
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine, 
Were yours unearn'd by toil ; nor could you see 
The unenjoying toiler's misery. 
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, 
Where once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? 



There crowd your finely-fibred frame, 

All living faculties of bhss ; 
And Genius to your cradle came, 
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, 
And bending low, vdth godlike kiss 
Breathed in a more celestial life ; 
But boasts not many a fair compeer 

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear ? 
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, 
Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
Yet these delight to celebrate 
Laurell'd War and plumy State ; 
Or in verse and music dress 
Tales of rustic happiness- 
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains ! 
That steel the rich man's breast. 
And mock the lot unblest. 
The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
Which evermore must be 
The doom of Ignorance and Penury ! 
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure \ 
Where learnt you that heroic measure 1 



You were a Mother ! That most holy name, 
Wliich Heaven and Nature bless, 
I may not vilely prostitute to those 

Whose Infants owe them less 
Than the poor Caterpillar owes 
Its gaudy Parent Fly. 
You were a Mother ! at your bosom fed 

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye; 
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read. 
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight! 
A second time to be a Mother, 

Without the Mother's bitter groans : 
Another thought, and yet another. 
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
O'er the growing Sense to roll. 
The Mother of your infant's Soul ! 
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 

His chariot-planet round the goal of day, 
All trembling gazes on the Eye of God, 

A. moment turn'd his awful face away ; 
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet 

New influences in your being rose. 
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet 
With living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see 
The shrine of social Liberty ! 
© beautiful ! O Nature's child ! 
'Twas thence you liail'd the Platform wild. 



Wliere once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 

Thence learnt you that heroic measure. 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 

Tranquillity ! thou better name 

Than all the family of Fame ! 

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 

For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 

To thee I gave my early youth. 
And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore. 
Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 

Who late and hngering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom, power divine, 
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
And dire Remembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 
At morning through the accustom'd mead ; 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
And when the gust of Autumn crowds 
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, 
Tliou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon. 

The feeling heart, the searching soul. 
To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
And while within myself I ti*ace 
The greatness of some future race, 
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE 
AUTHOR. 

COMPOSED IN 1796. 

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, 

But a green mountain variously up-piled. 
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep. 
Or color'd lichens with slow oozing weep ; 

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ,• 
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash ; 

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be 
guiled, 
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ; 

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
That rustling on the bushy clift above. 
With melancholy bleat of anxious love. 

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb 
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SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



51 



Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 
E 'en while the bosom ached with loneliness — 
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should 
bless 

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime 
Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round, 
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound ! 

O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark 
The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, 
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ; 
In social silence now, and now to unlock 
The treasured heart ; arm link'd in friendly arm, 
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag ; 

Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears. 
And from the forehead of the topmost crag 

Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears 
That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs. 

Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight 
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims. 

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light ; 

And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, 
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears. 
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 

Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, 
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine. 

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, 
Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine 
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood. 
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd : 

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the 
mount. 
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale. 
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss 
Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss ! 

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore. 
The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace ; 
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place. 
And many a stream, whose warbhng waters pour 

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ; 
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod. 
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod. 

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 
Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks 
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of Qge, 
And Bigotiy's mad fire-invoking rage ! 

O meek retiring spirit ! we will climb. 
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime ; 

And from the stirring world uplifted high 
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind, 
To quiet musings shall attune the mind. 

And oft the melancholy theme supply), 

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul. 
We '11 smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, 
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same. 

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole : 
Then, when the mind hath driuik its fill of truth, 

We '11 discipline the heart to pui-e delight, 
Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. 
They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth ! 

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright ! 



LINES TO W. L. ESQ. 

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. 

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 

And I have many friends who hold me dear ; 

L ! methinks, I would not often hear 

Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
And if at death's dread moment I should lie 

With no beloved face at my bed-side. 
To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, 
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by. 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 



ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OP FORTUNE, 

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND 

CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY. 

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 
O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 

To plunder'd Want's half shelter'd hovel go. 
Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear 
Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear : 

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 

O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves 
strew'd. 

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs 

The flocking flesh-birds scream'd ! Then, while thy 
heart 
Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 

Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 

What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 
O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resign'd. 

All effortless thou leave life's commonweal 

A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. 



SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. ^ 

Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 

How many various-fated years have past. 

What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 

I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray. 
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes 
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my 
way. 

Visions of childhood! 6ft have ye beguiled 
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 

Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 



SONNET. 



composed on a journey HOMEWARD ; THE AUTHOR 
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH 
OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. 

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 
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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, 
Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul 
Self-qucstion'd in her sleep ; and some have said* 

We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. 

O my sweet baby ! when I reach my door, 
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead 
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear), 
I think that I should struggle to believe 

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick 
reprieve. 

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 



SONNET. 



TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE 
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO BIE. 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy : 

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
All I had been, and all my child might be ! 

But when I saw it on its Mother's arm. 
And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 

Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm 

Impress'd a Father's kiss : and all beguiled 
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear— 

'T was even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, 

And dearer was the Mother for the Child. 



THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN. 

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC 
VILLAGE IN GERMANY. 

DoRMi, Jesu ! Mater ridet, 
~ Quas tam dulcem sonmum videt, 

Dormi, Jesu ! blandule ! 
Si non dermis, Mater plorat, 
Inter fila cantans orat 

Blande, veni, somnule. 



Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling 
Mother sits beside thee smiling : 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
If thou sleep not, mother moumeth. 
Singing as her wheel she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmily! 



ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 

This day among the faithful placed 

And fed with fontal manna ; 
O with maternal title graced 

Dear Anna's dearest Anna! 



* Hv TTbv tj[x(av 7) rpv^T) irpiv tv twSs tw avOpwTTivo) 
£i6u yeveaOai. 

Plat, in PluBdon. 



While others wish thee wise and fair, 

A maid of spotless fame, 
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-^ 

Mayst thou deserve thy name ! 

Thy Mother's name, a potent spell. 

That bids the Virtues hie 
From mystic grove and living cell 

Confest to Fancy's eye ,• 

Meek Quietness, without offence ; 

Content, in homespun kirtle ; 
True Love ; and True Love's Innocence, 

White Blossom of the Myrtle ! 

Associates of thy name, sweet Child ! 

These Virtues mayst thou win ; 
With Face as eloquently mild 

To say, they lodge within. 

So when, her tale of days all flown, 
Thy Mother shall be miss'd here ; 

When Heaven at length shall claim its own, 
And Angels snatch their Sister ; 

Some hoary-headed Friend, perchance, 

May gaze with stifled breath ; 
And oft, in momentary trance. 

Forget the waste of death. 

Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd 

In summer-sweUing pride ; 
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude 

Peep'd at the Rose's side. 

It chanced, I pass'd again that way 

In Autumn's latest hour, 
And wond'ring saw the self-same spray 

Rich with the self-same flower. 

Ah fond deceit ! the rude green bud 

Alike in shape, place, name. 
Had bloora'd, where bloom'd its parent stud. 

Another and the same ! 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Its balmy lips the Infant blest 
Relaxing from its Mother's breast, 
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
Of innocent Satiety ! 

And such my Infant's latest sigh ! 
O tell, rude stone ! the passer-by, 
That here the pretty babe doth lie. 
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 



MELANCHOLY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall. 
Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep^ 

Her folded arms WTapping her tatter'd pall, 
Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep. 
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SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



53 



The fern was press'd beneath her hair, 
The dark-green Adder's Tongue* was there ; 
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek. 

That pallid cheek was flush'd : her eager look 
Beam'd eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought,- 
Imperfect sounds her moving hps forsook, 
And her bent forehead work'd with troubled 
thought. 
Strange was the dream 



TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 

IMITATED PROM STOLBERG. 

Mark this holy chapel well ! 
The Birth-place, this, of WiUiam Tell. 
Here, where stands God's altar dread. 
Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 

Here first, an infant to her breast, 
Him his loving mother prest ; 
And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day, 
And pray'd as mothers use to pray : 

" Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give 
The Child thy servant still to live ! " 
But God has destined to do more 
Through him, than through an armed power. 

God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause— 

A spirit to his rocks akin, 

The eye of the Hawk, and the fire therein ! 

To Nature and to Holy writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft 
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft ! 

The straining oar and chamois chase 
Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace : 
On wave and wind the boy would toss. 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 

He knew not that his chosen hand. 
Made strong by God, his native land 
Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
Of Slavery the which he broke ! 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

The Shepherds went their hasty way, 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 

And now they check'd their eager tread. 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 

They told her how a glorious light. 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
Aroimd them shone, suspending night ! 
While, sweeter than a Mother's song. 
Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth. 
Glory to God on high ! and peace on Earth. 



* A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here de 
scribes is called the Hart's Tongue. 



She listen'd to the tale divine. 

And closer still the Babe she press'd ; 
And wfiile she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
The milk rush'd faster to her breast: 
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is bom. 

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
That Strife should vanish, Battle cease, 
O why should this thy soul elate ? 

Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, 

Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory ? 

And is not War a youthful King, 

A stately Hero clad in mail ? 
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 
Their Friend, their Play-mate ! and his bold bright eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 

" Tell this in some more courtly scene. 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean. 
And therefore is my Soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled. 
That from the aged Father tears his Child ! 

" A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, 

He kills the Sire and- starves the Son ; 
The Husband kills, and from her board 
Steals all his Widow's toil had won ; 
Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day. 

" Then wisely is my soul elate. 

That Strife should vanish, Battle cease : 
I 'm poor and of a low estate. 

The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is bom!" 



HUMAN LIFE, 

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. 

If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 

As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 
Whose sound and motion not alone declare. 

But are their whole of being ! If the Breath 
Be Life itself and not its task and tent. 

If even a soul like Milton's can know death , 
O Man ! thou vessel, purposeless, immeant. 

Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 
Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 

Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase, 

Retreating slow, with meditative pause. 

She form'd with restless hands unconsciously ! 

Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! 

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, 

Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, 

The counter- weights ! — Thy Laughter and thy Tears- 
Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, 
63 



54 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, 
Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 

Image of image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ! 
Yet what and whence thy gain if thou withliold 

These costless shadows of thy sliadowy self? 
Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
Thou hast no reason why ! Thou canst have none : 
Thy being's being is contradiction. 



THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. 

Never, believe me. 
Appear the Immortals, 
Never alone : 
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler ; 
Lo ! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his Throne ! 
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all I 
With Divinities fills my 
Terrestrial Hall ! 

How shall I yield you 
Due entertainment, 
Celestial Quire ? 
Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of up- 

buoyance 
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, 
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
Ha ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my Soul ! 

O give me the Nectar ! 
O fill me the Bowl! 
Give him the Nectar ! 
Pour out for the Poet, 
Hebe ! pour free ! 
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew. 
That Styx the detested no more he may view. 
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be ! 
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it! lo Peean, I cry! 
The Wine of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die ! 



But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! 

Where'er wilh wilder'd steps she wander'd pale. 
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view. 

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. 

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms. 
Amid the pomp of affluence she pined : 

Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms 
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: 
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming youth, 

May hold it in remembrance ; and be taught 
That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth. 



KUBLA KHAN; 

OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. 



ELEGY, 

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE's BLANK VERSE 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread. 

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound. 

Where " sleeps the moonlight " on yon verdant bed— 
O humbly press that consecrated ground ! 

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 

And there his spirit most delights to rove : 
Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain, 

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 

Like sortie tall tree that spreads its branches wide, 
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, 

His manhood blossom'd : till the faithless pride 
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 



[The following fragment is here published at the request of a 
poet of great and deserved celebrity, and, as far as the Author's 
own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, 
than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits. 

In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, 
had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, 
on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In con- 
sequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been pre- 
scribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at 
the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or 
words of the same substance, in Purchas's " Pilgrimage :" — 
" Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a 
stately garden thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground 
were inclosed with a wall." The autlior continued for about 
three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, 
during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could 
not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if 
that indeed can be called composition in which all the images 
rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the 
correspondent expressions, without any sensation, or conscious- 
ness of eflTort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a 
distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and 
paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the fines that are here 
preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by 
a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above 
an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small 
surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some 
vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision 
yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and 
images, all the rest had passed away like tlie images on tho 
surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas I 
without the after restoration of the latter. 

Then all the charm 
Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth ! who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes — 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return ! And lo, he stays, 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a mirror. 
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author 
has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been 
originally, as it were, given to him. ^afispov aSiov acw: 
but tho to-morrow is yet to come. 

As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a 
very different character, describing with equal fidelity the 
dream of pain and disease.— JVo<e to the first Edition, 18J6.] 



In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree ; 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea. 

64 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



55 



So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Infolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth- 
ing, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion, 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid. 

And on her dulcimer she play'd, 

Singing of Mount A bora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed 
And drank the milk of Paradise. 



THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay. 
It hath not been my use to pray 
With moving lips or bended knees ; 
But silently, by slow degrees. 
My spirit I to Love compose, 
In humble Trust mine eye-lids close, 
With reverential resignation. 
No wish conceived, no thought express'd ! 
Only a sense of supplication, 
A sense o'er all my soul imprest 
That I am weak, yet not unblest, 
I 



Since in me, round me, everywhere, 
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 

But yester-night I pray'd aloud 

In anguish and in agony. 

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 

A lurid light, a trampling throng. 

Sense of intolerable wrong, 

And whom I scorn'd, those only strong ! 

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 

Still baffled, and yet bm-ning still ! 

Desire with lothing strangely mix'd, 

On wild or hateful objects fix'd. 

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 

And shame and terror over all ! 

Deeds to be hid which were not hid, 

Which all confused 1 could not know, 

Whether I suffer'd, or I did : 

For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe, 

My own or others', still the same 

Life-stifhng fear, soul-stifling shame. 

So two nights pass'd : the night's dismay 
Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day. 
Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me 
Distemper's worst calamity. 
The third night, when my own loud scream 
Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
I wept as I had been a child ; 
And having thus hy tears subdued 
My anguish to a milder mood, 
Such punishments, I said, were due 
To natures deepliest stain'd with sin : 
For aye entempesting anew 
The unfathomable hell within. 
The horror of their deeds to view, 
To know and lothe, yet wish and do ! 
Such griefs with such men well agree, 
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 
To be beloved is all I need. 
And whom I love, I love indeed. 



APPENDIX. 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE 

TO " FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER." 

[See page 26]. 

At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles 
and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian con- 
secrates a cultivated genius and the favorable acci- 
dents of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, it 
was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with 
more men of celebrity in science or polite literature, 
than are commonly found collected round the same 
table. In the course of conversation, one of the par- 
ty reminded an illustrious Poet, then present, of some 
verses which he had recited that morning, and which 
had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a 
War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, 
were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so 
addressed replied, that he was rather surprised that 
65 



56 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



none of us should have noticed or heard of the poem, 
as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in 
Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feel- 
ings were at this moment not of the most comforta- 
ble kind. Of all present, one only knew or suspect- 
ed me to be the author : a man who would have 
established himself in the first rank of England's 
living Poets, if the Genius of our country had not 
decreed that he should rather be the first in the first 
rank of its Philosophers and scientific Benefactors. 
It appeared the general wish to hear the lines. As my 
friend chose to remain silent, I chose to follow his 
example, and Mr. ***** recited the Poem. This he 
could do with the better grace, being known to have 
ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and 
Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. 
Pitt, both as a good man and a great Statesman. As 
a Poet exclusively, he had been amused with the 
Eclogue ; as a Poet, he recited it ; and in a spirit, 
which made it evident, that he would have read and 
repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own 
name been attached to the imaginary object or agent. 

After the recitation, our amiable host observed, 
that in his opinion Mr. ***** had overrated the merits 
of the poetry ; but had they been tenfold greater, 
they could not have compensated for that malignity 
of heart, which could alone have prompted senti- 
ments so atrocious. I perceived that my illustrious 
friend became greatly distressed on my account; but 
fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and pres- 
ence of mind enough to take up the subject vdthout 
exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully 
it interested me. 

What follows, is substantially the same as I then 
replied, but dilated and in language less colloquial. 
It was not my intention, I said, to justify the publi- 
cation, whatever its author's feelings might have 
been at the time of composing it. That they are 
calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from 
a good man, is not the worst feature of such poems. 
Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion to 
the pleasure which they are capable of affording 
to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers. 
Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the 
author seriously wished what he had thus wildly im- 
agined, even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so 
monstrous would be an insult to the hearers. But it 
seemed to me worthy of consideration, whether the 
mood of mind, and the general state of sensations, 
in which a Poet produces such vivid and fantastic 
images, is likely to coexist, or is even compatible, 
with that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a 
serious wish to realize them would presuppose. It 
had been often observed, and all my experience 
tended to confirm the observation, that prospects of 
pain and evil to others, and, in general, all deep feel- 
ings of revenge, are commonly expressed in a few 
words, ironically tame, and mild. The mind under 
so direful and fiend-like an influence seems to take a 
morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of its 
wishes and feelings, with the slightness or levity of 
the expressions by which they are hinted ; and in- 
deed feelings so intense and solitary, if they were 
not precluded (as in almost all cases they would be) 
by a constitutional activity of fancy and association, 
and by the specific joyousness combined with it, 
would assuredly themselves preclude such activity. 
Passion, in its own quahty, is the antagonist of ac- 
tion ; tljoiigh in an ordinary and natural degree the 
former allcrnates with tiie latter, and thereby revives 



and strengthens it. But the more intense and insane 
the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the 
correspondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, 
an inveterate thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, 
and still eddies round its favorite object, and exer- 
cises as it were a perpetual tautology of mind in 
thoughts and words, which admit of no adequate 
substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it moves 
restlessly round and round the scanty circumference, 
which it cannot leave without losing its vital ele- 
ment. 

There is a second character of such imaginary 
representations as spring from a real and earnest de- 
sire of evil to another, which we often see in real 
life, and might even anticipate from the nature of 
the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive 
man places before his imagination, will most often be 
taken from the realities of life : they will be images 
of pain and suflfering which he has himself seen in- 
flicted on other men, and which he can fancy him- 
self as inflicting on the object of his hatred. I will 
suppose that we had heard at diflferent times two 
common sailors, each speaking of some one who had 
wronged or offended him : that the first with appa- 
rent violence had devoted every part of his adversa- 
ry's body and soul to all the horrid phantoms and 
fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, and 
this in a rapid flow of those outre and wildly-com- 
bined execrations, which too often with our lower 
classes serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess 
of their passions, as so much superfluous steam that 
would endanger the vessel if it were retained. The 
other, on the contrary, with that sort of calmness of 
tone which is to the ear what the paleness of anger 
is to the eye, shall simply say, " If I chance to be 
made boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but 
once get that fellow under my hand (and 1 shall be 
upon the watch for him), I '11 tickle his pretty skin ! 

I wont hurt him ! oh no ! I '11 only cut the to 

the liver!" I dare appeal to all present, which of the 
two they would regard as the least deceptive symp- 
tom of deliberate malignity ? nay, whether it would 
surprise them to see the first fellow, an hour or two 
afterward, cordially shaking hands with the very 
man, the fractional parts of whose body and soul he 
had been so charitably disposing of; or even perhaps 
risking his life for him. What language Shakspeare 
considered characteristic of malignant disposition, we 
see in the speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who 
spoke " an infinite deal of nothing more than any 
man in all Venice ;" 

Too wild, too rude and bold of voice ! ^ 

the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words recip- 
rocally ran away with each other ; 

O be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ! 

And for thy life let justice be accused! 

and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shy- 
lock's ti'anquil " I stand here for law." 

Or, to take a case more analogous to the present 
subject, should we hold it either fair or charitable to 
believe it to have been Dante's serious wish, that all 
the persons mentioned by him, (many recently de- 
parted, and some even alive at the time), should ac- 
tually suffer the fantastic and horrible punishments, 
to which he has sentenced them in his Hell and 
Purffatori/? Or what shall we say of the passages 
in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state 
of those who, vicious themselves, have been the 
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SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



57 



cause of vice and misery to their fellow-creatures ? 
Could we endure for a moment to think that a spirit, 
like Bishop Taylor's, burning with Christian love ; 
that a man constitutionally overflowing with plea- 
surable kindliness ,- who scarcely even in a casual 
illustration introduces the image of woman, child, or 
bird, but he embalms the thought with so rich a 
tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties 
and fragments of poetry from a Euripides or Simo- 
jiides ; — can we endure to think, that a man so na- 
tured and so disciplined, did at the time of composing 
this horrible picture, attach a sober feeling of reality 
to the phrases ? or that he would have described in 
the same tone of justification, in the same luxuriant 
flow of phrases, the tortures about to be inflicted on 
a Uving individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber? 
or the still more atrocious sentences executed on the 
Scotch anti-prelatists and schismatics, at the com- 
mand, and in some instances under the very eye of 
the Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched bigot 
who afterwards dishonored and forfeited the throne 
of Great Britain ? Or do we not rather feel and un- 
derstand, that these violent words were mere bubbles, 
flashes and electrical apparitions, from the magic 
caldron of a fervid and ebullient fancy, constantly 
fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language ? 

Were I now to have read by myself for the first 
time the Poem in question, my conclusion, I fully 
believe, would be, that the writer must have been 
some man of warm feelings and active fancy ; that 
he had painted to himself the circumstances that ac- 
company war in so many vivid and yet fantastic 
forms, as proved that neither the images nor the 
feelings were the result of observation, or in any 
way derived from realities. I should judge, that they 
were the product of his own seething imagination, 
and therefore impregnated with that pleasurable ex- 
ultation which is experienced in all energetic exer- 
tion of intellectual power ; that in the same mood 
he had generalized the causes of the war, and then 
personified the abstract, and christened it by the 
name which he had been accustomed to hear most 
often associated with its management and measures. 
I should guess that the minister was in the author's 
mind at the moment of composition, as completely 
aTta^s, avaijxdffapKog, as Ariacreon's grasshopper, and 
that he had as little notion of a real person of flesh 
and blood, 

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb, 

as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half 
person, half allegory) which he has placed at the 
gates of Hell. I concluded by observing, that the 
Poem was not calculated to excite passion in any 
mind, or to make any impression except on poetic 
readers ; and that from the culpable levity, betrayed 
at the close of the Eclogue by the grotesque union 
of epigrammatic wit with allegoric personification, 
in the allusion to the most fearful of thoughts, I 
should conjecture that the " rantin' Bardie," instead 
of really believing, much less wishing, the fate spo- 
ken of in the last line, in application to any human 
individual, would shrink from passing the verdict 
even on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor 
Burns, 

But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 

Oh ! wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 

Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
Still hue a stake— 



1 'm wae to think upon yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

I need not say that these thoughts, which are here 
dilated, were in such a company only rapidly sug- 
gested. Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous 
compliment observed, that the defence was too good 
for the cause. My voice faltered a little, for I was 
somewhat agitated ; though not so much on my own 
account as for the uneasiness that so kind and 
friendly a man would feel from the thought that he 
had been the occasion of distressing me. At length 
I brought out these words : " I must now confess, 
Sir ! that I am author of that Poem. It was written 
some years ago. I do not attempt to justify my past 
self, young as I then was ; but as little as I would 
now write a similar poem, so far was I even then 
from imagining, that the lines would be taken as 
more or less than a sport of fancy. At all events, if 
I know my own heart, there was never a moment 
in my existence in which I should have been more 
ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to inter- 
pose my own body, and defend his life at the risk of 
my own." 

I have prefaced the Poem with this anecdote, be- 
cause to have printed it without any remark might 
well have been understood as implying an uncondi- 
tional approbation on my part, and this after many 
years' consideration. But if it be asked why I re- 
published it at all ? I answer, that the Poem had 
been attributed at different times to diflferent other 
persons ; and what I had dared beget, I thought it 
neither manly nor honorable not to dare father. 
From the same motives I should have published 
perfect copies of two Poems, the one entitled The 
Devil's Thoughts, and the other The Two Round 
Spaces on the Tomh-Stone, but that the three first 
stanzas of the former, which were worth all the rest 
of the poem, and the best stanza of the remainder, 
were written by a friend of deserved celebrity ,• and 
because there are passages in both, which might 
have given offence to the religious feelings of certain 
readers. I myself indeed see no reason why vulgar 
superstitions, and absurd conceptions that deform the 
pure faith of a Christian, should possess a greater 
immunity from ridicule than stories of witches, or 
the fables of Greece and Rome. But there are 
those who deem it profaneness and irreverence to 
call an ape an ape, if it but wear a monk's cowl on 
its head ; and I would rather reason with this weak-, 
ness than offend it. 

The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I re- 
ferred, is found in his second Sermon on Christ's 
Advent to Judgment ; which is likewise the second 
in his year's course of sermons. Among many re- 
markable passages of the same character in those 
discourses, I have selected this as the most so. "But 
when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall appear, 
then Justice shall strike and Mercy shall not hold 
her hands ; she shall strike sore strokes, and Pity 
shall not break the blow. As there are treasures of 
good things, so hath God a treasure of wrath and 
fury, and scourges and scorpions ; and then shall be 
produced the shame of Lust and the mahce of Envy, 
and the groans of the oppressed and the persecutions 
of the saints, and the cares of Covetousness and the 
troubles of Ambition, and the indolence of traitors 
and the violences of rebels, and the rage of anger and 
the uneasiness of impatience, and the restlessness of 
67 



58 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



unlawful desires ; and by this time the monsters and 
diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when 
God's heavy hand shall press the sanies and the in- 
tolerableness, the obliquity and the unreasonableness, 
the amazement and the disorder, the smart and the 
sorrow, the guilt and the punishment, out from all 
our sins, and pour them into one chalice, and mingle 
them with an infinite wrath, and make the wicked 
drink of all the vengeance, and force it down their 
TUiwilling throats with the violence of devils and 
accursed spirits." 

That this Tartarean drench displays the imagina- 
tion rather than the discretion of the compounder ; 
that, in short, this passage and others of the kind 
are in a bad taste, few will deny at the present day. 
It would doubtless have more behoved the good 
bishop not to be wise beyond what is written, on a 
subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, and a 
death threatened, not the negative, but the positive 
Oppositive of Life ; a subject, therefore, which must 
of necessity be indescribable to the human under- 
standing in our present state. But I can neither find 
nor believe, that it ever occurred to any reader to 
ground on such passages a charge against Bishop 
Taylor's humanity, or goodness of heart. I was 
not a little surprised therefore to find, in the Pur- 
suits of Literature and other works, so horrible a 
sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for a 
passage in his prose-writings, as nearly parallel to 
this of Taylor's as two passages can well be con- 
ceived to be. All his merits, as a poet forsooth — all 
the glory of having written the Paradise Lost, are 
light in the scale, nay, kick the beam, compared 
with the atrocious malignity of heart expressed in 
the offensive paragraph. I remembered, in general, 
that Milton had concluded one of his works on Re- 
formation, written in the fervor of his youthful im- 
agination, in a high poetic strain, that wanted metre 
only to become a lyrical poem. I remembered that 
in the former part he had formed to himself a perfect 
ideal of human virtue, a character of heroic, disin- 
terested zeal and devotion for Truth, Religion, and 
public Liberty, in Act and in Suflfering, in the day 
of Triumph and in the hour of Martyrdom. Such 
spirits, as more excellent than others, he describes 
as having a more excellent reward, and as distin- 
guished by a transcendent glory : and this reward 
and this glory he displays and particularizes with an 
energy and brilliance that announced the Paradise 
Lost as plainly as ever the bright purple clouds in 
the east announced the coming of the sun. Milton 
then passes to the gloomy contrast, to such men as 
from motives of selfish ambition and the lust of per- 
sonal aggrandizement should, against their own light, 
persecute truth and the true religion, and wilfully 
abuse the powers and gifts intrusted to them, to 
bring vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on their 
native country, on the very country that had trusted, 
enriched and honored them. Such beings, after that 
speedy and appropriate removal from their sphere of 
mischief which all good and humane men must of 
course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity of 
reason, meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a 
retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men, 
as their guilt and its consequences were more enor- 
mous. His description of this imaginary punishment 
presents more distinct pictures to the fancy than the 
extract from Jeremy Taylor ; but the thovghts in the 
latter are incomparably more exaggerated and hor- 
rific. All this I knew : but I neither remembered 



nor by reference and careful re-perusal could dis- 
cover, any other meaning, either in Milton or Taylor, 
but that good men will be rewarded, and the impen- 
itent wicked punished, in proportion to their disposi- 
tions and intentional acts in this life ; and that if the 
punishment of the least wicked be fearful beyond 
conception, all words and descriptions must be so far 
true, that they must fall short of the punishment that 
awaits the transcendentiy wicked. Had Milton stated 
either his ideal of virtue, or of depravity, as an indi- 
vidual or individuals actually existing? Certainly not! 
Is this representation worded historically, or only hy- 
pothetically ? Assuredly the latter ! Does he express 
it as his own msh, that after death they should suflfer 
these tortures ? or as a general consequence, deduced 
from reason and revelation, that such vxill be their 
fate? Again, the latter only! His wish is expressly con- 
fined to a speedy stop being put by Providence to 
their power of inflicting misery on others ! But did he 
name or refer to any persons, living or dead ? No! 
But the calumniators of Milton dare say (for what 
will calumny not dare say 1) that he had Laud and 
Stafford in his mind, while writing of remorseless 
persecution, and the enslavement of a free country, 
from motives of selfish ambition. Now, what if a 
stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking 
of the insolencies of traitors and the violences of rebels. 
Bishop Taylor must have individualized in his mind, 
Hampden, Hollis, Pym, Fairfax, Ireton, and Mil- 
ton ? And what if he should take the liberty of con- 
cluding, that, in the after description, the Bishop was 
feeding and feasting his party-hatred, and with those 
individuals before the eyes of his imagination enjoy- 
ing, trait by trait, horror after horror, the picture of 
their intolerable agonies ? Yet this bigot would have 
an equal right thus to criminate the one good and 
great man, as these men have to criminate the other. 
Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with 
equal truth could have said it, " that in his whole 
life he never spake against a man even that his skin 
should be grazed." He asserted this when one of his 
opponents (either Bishop Hall or his nephew) had 
called upon the women and children in the streets 
to take up stones and stone him (Milton). It is 
known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to 
protect the royalists ; but even at a time when all 
lies would have been meritorious against him, no 
charge was made, no story pretended, that he had 
ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in 
their persecution. Oh! methinks there are other and 
far better feelings, which should be acquired by the 
perusal of our great elder writers. When I have 
before me on the same table, the works of Hammond 
and Baxter : when I reflect with what joy and dear- 
ness their blessed spirits are now loving each other : 
it seems a mournful thing that their names should 
be perverted to an occasion of bitterness among us, 
who are enjoying that happy mean which the human 
too-much on both sides was perhaps necessary to 
produce. " The tangle of delusions which stifled and 
distorted the growing tree of our well-being has been 
torn away ! the parasite weeds that fed on its very 
roots have been plucked up with a salutary violence. 
To us there remain only quiet duties, the constant 
care, the gradual improvement, the cautious un- 
hazardous labors of the industrious though contented 
gardener — to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and 
one by one to remove from its leaves and fresh 
shoots the slug and the caterpillar. But far be 
it from us to undervalue with light and senseless 
68 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



59 



detraction the conscientious hardihood of our prede- 
cessors, or even to condemn in them that vehemence, 
to which the blessings it won for us leave us now 
neither temptation or pretext. We antedate the 
feelings, in order to criminate the authors, of our pres- 
ent Liberty, Light and Toleration." (The Friend, 
p. 54.) 

If ever two great men might seem, during their 
whol e lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though 
neither of them has at any time introduced the 
name of the other, Milton and Jeremy Taylor were 
they. The former commenced his career by attack- 
ing the Church-Liturgy and all set forms of prayer. 
The latter, but far more successfully, by defending 
both. Milton's next work was then against the Pre 
lacy and the then existing Church-Government — 
Taylor's in vindication and support of them. Milton 
became more and more a stern republican, or rather 
an advocate for that religious and moral aristocracy 
which, in his day, was called republicanism, and 
which, even more than royalism itself, is the direct 
antipode of modern jacobinism. Taylor, as more and 
more sceptical concerning the fitness of men in general 
for power, became more and more attached to the 
prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism, with 
still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for 
Church-Antiquity in general, Milton seems to have 
ended in an indifference, if not a dislike, to all forms 
of ecclesiastic government, and to have retreated 
wholly into the inward and spiriljual church-commu- 
nion of his own spirit with the Light, that lighteth 
every man that cometh into the world. Taylor, with 
a growing reverence for authority, an increasing 
sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures without 
the aids of tradition and the consent of authorized 
interpreters, advanced as far in his approaches (not 
indeed to Popery, but) to Catholicism, as a conscien- 
tious minister of the English Church could well ven- 
ture. Milton would be, and would utter the same, 
to all, on all occasions : he would tell the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Taylor 
would become all things to all men, if by any 
means he might benefit any ; hence he availed him- 
self, in his popular writings, of opinions and repre- 
sentations which stand often in striking contrast with 
the doubts and convictions expressed in his more 
philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too 
severely to have blamed that management of truth 
{istam falsiiatem dispensativam) authorized and ex- 
emplified by almost all the fathers : Integrum omnino 
Doctoribus et costus Christiani antistihus esse, ut dolos 
versent, falsa veris intermisceant et imprimis religionis 
hostes fallant, dummodo veritalis commodis et uiilitati 
inserviant. 

The same antithesis might be carried on with the 
elements of their several intellectual powers. Mil- 
ton, austere, condensed, imaginative, supporting his 
truth by direct enunciations of lofty moral senti- 
ment and by distinct visual representations, and in 
the same spirit overwhelming what he deemed false- 
hood by moral denunciation and a succession of pic- 
tures appalling or repulsive. In his prose, so many 
metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. Taylor, 
eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one 
of his own words) agglomerabive ; still more rich in 
images than Milton himself, but images of Fancy, 
and presented to the common and passive eye, rather 
than to the eye of the imagination. Whether sup- 
porting or assailing, he makes his way either by ar- 
gument or by appeals to the affections, unsurpassed 



even by the Schoolmen in subtlety, agility and logic 
wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of the 
fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his ex- 
pressions and illustrations. Here words that con- 
vey feelings, and words that flash images, and words 
of abstract notion, flow together, and at once whirl 
and rush onward like a stream, at once rapid and 
full of eddies ; and yet still interfused here and there, 
we see a tongue or isle of smooth water, with some 
picture in it of earth or sky, landscape or living 
group of quiet beauty. 

Differing, then, so widely, and almost contrariant- 
ly, wherein did these great men agree? wherein 
did they resemble each other? In Genius, in 
Learning, in unfeigned Piety, in blameless Purity 
of Life, and in benevolent aspirations and purposes 
for the moral and temporal improvement of their fel- 
low-creatures! Both of them wrote a Latin Acci- 
dence, to render education more easy and less pain- 
ful to children; both of them composed hymns and 
psalms proportioned to the capacity of common con- 
gregations ; both, nearly at the same time, set the 
glorious example of publicly recommending and sup- 
porting general Toleration, and the Liberty both of 
the Pulpit and the Press ! In the writings of neither 
shall we find a single sentence, like those meeh 
deliverances to God's mercy, with which Laud ac- 
companied his votes for the mutilations and lothe- 
some dungeoning of Leighton and others ! — nowhere 
such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop Hall's 
memoranda of his own Life, concerning the subtle 
and witty Atheist that so grievously perplexed and 
gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's, till he prayed to 
the Lord to remove him, and behold! his prayers 
were heard; for shortly afterward this Philistine 
combatant went to London, and there perished of 
the plague in great misery ! In short, nowhere shall 
we find the least approach, in the lives and writings 
of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded 
gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with which 
the holy Brethren of the Inquisition deliver over a 
condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, recom- 
mending him to mercy, and hoping that the magis- 
trate vdll treat the erring brother with all possible 
mildness ! — the magistrate, who too well knows what 
would be his own fate, if he dared offend them by 
acting on their recommendation. 

The opportunity of diverting the reader from my- 
self to characters more worthy of his attention, has 
led me far beyond my first intention ; but it is not 
unimportant to expose the false zeal which has occa- 
sioned these attacks on our elder patriots. It has 
been too much the fashion, first to personify the 
Church of England, and then to speak of different 
individuals, who in different ages have been rulers 
in that church, as if in some strange way they con- 
stituted its personal identity. Why should a clergy- 
man of the present day feel interested in the defence 
of Laud or Sheldon ? Surely it is sufficient for the 
warmest partisan of our establishment, that he can 
assert with truth, — when our Church persecuted, it 
was on mistaken principles held in common by all 
Christendom ; and, at all events, far less culpable 
was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were main- 
taining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit 
afterwards shown by their successful opponents, who 
had no such excuse, and who should have been 
taught mercy by their own sufferings, and wdsdom by 
the utter failure of the experiment in their own case. 
We can say, that our Church, apostolical in its faith, 
69 



60 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its liturgical 
forms; that our Church, which has kindled and dis- 
played more bright and burning lights of Genius and 
Learning, than all other Protestant churches since 
the Reformation, was (with the single exception of 
the times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, 
when all Christians unhappily deemed a species of 
intolerance their religious duty ; that Bishops of our 
church were among the first that contended against 
this error; and finally, that since the Reformation, 
when tolerance became a fashion, the Church of 



England, in a tolerating age, has shown herself emi 
nently tolerant, and far more so, both in Spirit and in 
fact, that many of her most bitter opponents, who 
profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the 
rights of manldnd ! As to myself, who not only know 
the Chnrch-lCstablishment to bo tolerant, but who 
see in it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of 
Toleration, I feel no necessity of defending or pal- 
liating oppressions under the two Charleses, in order 
to exglaim with a full and fervent heart, esto per- 



ffifte Mimt of tfte Enctent ^uvtntv. 

IN SEVEN PARTS. 



Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sedhorum omnium 
familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et-singulorum munera? Q,uid 
agunt? qua} loca habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingetiium humanum, nunquam 
attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi 
imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodierniE vitce minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat 
in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab 
incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.— T. Burnet : Archaol. Phil. p. 68. 



PART I. 

An ancient Mari- It is an ancient Mariner, 

ner meeteth three And he stoppeth one of three : 

r we".ldilig-feas? " ^y ^^y ^°"^ Sray beard and glitter- 

and detaineth ' ing eye, 

one. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

" The Bridegroom's doors are open'd 

wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand : 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard 

loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



The wedding- 
guest is spell- 
bound by the eye 
of the old seafar- 
ing man, and con- 
strained to hear 
his tale. 



He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 
And listens like a three-years' child ; 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone. 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed mariner. 

The ship was cheer'd, the harbor 

clear'd, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill. 
Below the light-house top. 

The Mariner tells The Sun came up upon the left, 

how the ship sail- Out of the sea came he ! 

wither JoTd wind And he .shone bright, and on the right 

and fair weather, Went down into tne sea. 

till it reached the ^^. , , , . , , 

line Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his 

breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The bride hath paced into the hall, The wedding- 
Red as a rose is she ; ^^^^^ ^^^^^^ *» 
Nodding their heads before her goes ti,e Mariner coi>- 
The merry minstrelsy. tinueth his tale. 
The Wedding-Guest he beat his 

breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now the storm-blast came, and The ship drawn 
he by a storm toward 

Was tyrannous and strong : the south pole. 

He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dripping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow, 
Aud it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts The land of ice, 
Did send a dismal sheen : and of fearful 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we Sfu7ng waS" 

ken to bg ggg„_ 

The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and 

howl'd, 
Like noises in a swound ! 



At length did cross an Albatross : 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hail'd it in God's name. 

70 



Till a great sea- 
bird, called the 
Albatross, came 
through the snow- 
fog, and was re- 
ceived with great 
joy and hospitai 
ity. 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



61 



And lo ! the Al- 
batross proveth 
a bird of good 
omen, and follow- 
eth the ship as it 
returned north- 
ward through fog 
and floating ice. 



The ancient Mari- 
ner inhospitably 
fcilleth the pious 
bird of good 
omen. 



It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did spht with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steer'd us through ! 

And a good south-wind sprung up 

behind ; 
The Albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perch'd for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog- 
smoke white, 
Glimmer'd the white moon-shine. 

" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee 

thus ! 
Why look'st thou so?" — With my 

cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 

PART II. 
The Sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south-wind still blew 

behind. 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariner's hollo ! 



His shipmates cry And I had done an hellish thing, 
out against the And it would work 'em woe : 

of good-luck. Aiiat made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to 

slay. 
That made the breeze to blow ! 




But when the fog 
cleared off, they 
justify the same, 
and thus make 
themselves ac- 
complices in the 



The fair breeze 
continues ; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean and 
sails northward, 
even till it reach- 
es the Line. 

The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own 

head. 
The glorious Sun uprist : 
Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. 
'T was right, said they, such birds to 

slay 
That bring the fog and mist 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam 

flew, 
The furrow foUow'd free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 

down, 
'T was sad as sad could be ,• 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 



And the Alba- 
tross begins to bo 
avenged. 



Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion j 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink : 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

. J . 1 , A spirit had fol- 

And some m dreams assured were i^wed them-, one 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; of the invisible in- 
Nine fathom deep he had foUow'd us habitants of this 
From the land of mist and snow. Sl^^iir'lf 

nor angels ; con- 
cerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic 
Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They 
are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without 
one or more. , 



And every tongue, through utter 

drought, 
Was wither'd at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



PART III 



The shipmates, in 
their sore distress 
would fain throw 
the whole guilt on 
the ancient Mar- 
iner : — in sign 
whereof they 
hang the dead 
sea-bird round 
his neck. 



Each 



The ancient Ma- 
riner beholdeth a 
sign in the ele- 
ment afar off 



There pass'd a weary time. 

throat 

Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye. 
When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seem'd a little speck. 
And then it seem'd a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it near'd and near'd : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. , 



With throats unslaked, with black At its nearer ap- 

lips baked, P™^?- " ^f ™- 

„- ^ , 1 ; , ., eth him to be a 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; g^ip ; and at a 

Through utter drought all dumb we dear ransom he 

stood ; freeth his speech 

I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, f^^^ ^""^^^ »^ 
And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

71 



62 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With throats unslaked, with black 

lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call ; 
A flash of joy. Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in. 
As they were drinking all. 

And horror fol- g^g i gge ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 

lows: for can It be jj- , ^ j^ ^^ j 

a ship, that comes , ^. , , . ' 

onward without Without a breeze, without a tide, 

wind or tide 1 She steadies with upright keel ! 

The western wave was all a flame, 
The day was well-nigh done. 
Almost upon the western wave 
/ Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove sud- 
denly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 



It seemeth him 
but the skeleton 
of a ship. 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. 

The spectre- 
woman and her 
death-mate, and 
no other on board 
the skeleton-ship. 
Like vessel, like 
crew! 



Death, and Life- 
in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, and 
she (the latter") 
winneth the an- 
cient Mariner. 

No twilight 
within the courts 
of the sun. 



At the rising of 
the moon, 



And straight the Sun was fleck'd 

with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he 

peer'd 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat 

loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those hei' sails that glance in the 

Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the 

Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ; 
And is that woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death, and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were 

free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was 

she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
" The game is done ! I 've won, I 've 

won ! " 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush 

out: 
At one stride comes the Dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listen'd and look'd sideways up ! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 
My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 
The stars were dim, and thick the 

night, 
The steersman's face by his lamp 

gleam'd white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright 

star 
Within the nether tip. 



One after one, by the star-dogged One after an- 
Moon, other, 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 

Each tum'd his face with a ghastly 
pang. 

And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men His shipmates 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan), drop down dead 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
They dropp'd down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — gut jjfe-in- 
They fled to bliss or woe ! Death begins hei 

And every soul, it pass'd me by 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 

PART IV. 

" I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner ! The wedding- 

T J? .1 1 • 1 II guest tearetb that 

I fear thy skinny hand ! a spirit is talking 

And thou art long, and lank, and to him; 

brown, 
As is the ribb'd sea-sand.* 



work on the an- 
cient Mariner. 



" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 
Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy 

things 
Lived on : and so did I. 



But the ancient 
Mariner assureth 
him of his bodiljr 
life, and proceed- 
eth to relate his 
horrible penance. 



He despiseth the 
creatures of the 
cakn. 



And envieth that 
they should live, 
and so many lie 
dead. 



I look'd upon the rotting sea. 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I look'd upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 

I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gush'd, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea 

and the sky. 
Lay like a load on my weary eye 
And the dead were at my feet. 



The cold sweat melted from their But the curse liv- 
limbs ^''^ ^^^ ^''" '" ^^^ 

Nor rot nor reek did they ; [me ^l^^ "^^ ^'^** 

The look with which they look'd on 
Had never pass'd away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
A spirit from on high ; 



* For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. 
Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nother Stowey 
to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797 
that this Poem was planned, and in part composed. 

72 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



63 



But oh ! more horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I sav^r that 

curse. 
And yet I could not die. 

In his loneliness The moving Moon went up the sky, 
itSZ^.! And nowhere did abide: 
the journeying Softly she was gomg up, 
Moon, and the And a Star or two beside — 
stars that still so- 
journ, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky 
belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native 
country and their own natural homes, which they enter unan- 
nounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is 
a silent joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But where the ship's huge shadow 

lay. 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 



'By the light of 
the Moon he be- 
holdeth God's 
creatures of the 
great calm. 



Beyond the shadow of the ship 

I watch'd the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining 

white. 

And when they rear'd, the elfish light 
Fell* off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow pjf the ship 
I watch'd their rich attire : 
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coil'd and swam ; and every 

track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 

Their beauty and O happy living things ! no tongue 
their happiness, ^heir beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gush'd from my 
heart. 
He blesseth them And I bless'd them unaware : 
m his heart. ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ p-^^ ^^ ^^^ 

And I bless'd them unaware. 



The spell begins 
to break. 



The self-same moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

PART V. 
Oh Sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from 

Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

By grace of the The silly buckets on the deck, 

andenl^triner ^^^^ ^^^ ^° ^""^ remain'd, [dew ; 
is refreshed with I dreamt that they were fiU'd with 
rain. And when I awoke, it rain'd. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 



I moved, and could not feel 

limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 



my 



And soon I heard a roaring wind 
It did not come anear; 



He heareth 
sounds and seeth 

But with its sound it shook the sails, ^nd commotions 
That were so thin and sere. in the sky and 

the element. 
The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more 

loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain pour'd down from one 

black cloud ; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and 

still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reach'd the The bodies of the 
ship ship's crew are 

Ye. now'the ship moved on! Z'^^^'tnT 

Beneath the lightnmg and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all 

uprose. 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steer'd, the ship 

moved on ; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their hmbs like lifeless 

tools 
— We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pull'd at one rope, 
But he said nought to me. * .s-i r 



" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 

Be calm, thou Wedding-guest ! 

'T was not those souls that fled in 

pain. 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd 

their arms. 
And clt:^ter'd round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through 

their mouths. 
And from their bodies pass'd. 

Around, around, flew each sweet 

sound. 
Then darted to the Sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mix'd, now one by one. 

73 



But not by the 
souls of the men, 
nor byda?mon8of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, 
sent down by the 
invocation of the 
guardian saint. 



64 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The lonesome 
epirit from the 
Bouth-pole carries 
on the ship as far 
as the hne, in 
obedience to the 
angelic troop, but 
still requireth 
vengeance. 



The Polar Spirit's 
fellow daemons, 
the invisible in- 
habitants of the 
element, take part 
in his wrong ; 
and two of them 
relate, one to the 
other, that pen- 
ance long and 
heavy for the an- 
cient Mariner 
hath been accord- 
ed to the Polar 
Spirit, who re- 
turneth south- 
ward. 



Sometimes, a-drooping from the sky, 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seem'd to fill the sea and 

air, 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 't was hke all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the Heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid : and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fix'd her to the ocean ; 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her 

length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life retum'd, 
I heard and in my soul discern'd 
Two VOICES in the air. 

" Is it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the 

man? 
By him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

" The spirit who bideth by himself 

In the land of mist and snow. 

He loved the bird that loved the 

man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, " The man hath penance 

done, 
And penance more will do." 



The Mariner hath 
been cast into a 
trance ; for the 
angelic power 
causeth the ves- 
sel to drive north- 
ward faster than 
human life could 
endure 



PART VI. 
FIRST VOICE. 

But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so 

fast? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord. 
The OCEAN hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The air is cut away before. 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more 

high! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated. 



I woke, and we were sailing on The supernatural 

As in a gentle weather : motion is retard- 

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon f^kt^.^hls 

was high ; penance begins ' 

The dead men stood together. anew. 

All stood together on the deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
All fix'd on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 

died. 
Had never pass'd away : 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once The curse is fi- 

niore nally expiated. 

I view'd the ocean green. 
And look'd far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turn'd round walks 

on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

74 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



65 



eth his native 
country 



It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sail'd softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

And the ancient Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
Mariner behold- fj^g light-house top I see ? 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this mine own countree ? 

We drifted o'er the harbor bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no 

less 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent 
light. 
The angelic spir- Till, rising from the same> 
its leave the Full many shapes that shadows were, 

In crimson colors came. 



dead bodies, 



And appear in 
their own forms 
of light. 



A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph band, each waved his 

hand: 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph band, each waved his 

hand. 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turn'd perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
It is the Hermit good ! 



He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash 

away 
The Albatross's blood. 

PART VII. 

This Hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit of 
Which slopes down to the sea. the Wood, 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump : 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiflJ^boat near'd : I heard them 

talk, 

" Why this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and 

fair. 
That signal made but now ?" 

" Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit Approacheth the 
said ship witli wonder. 

" And they answer not our cheer ! 

The planks look warp'd! and see 
those sails. 

How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 
WTien the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf 

below, 
That eats the she-wolf's young." 

" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply,) 
I am a-fear'd " — " Push on, push on ! " 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 



The ship suddenly 
sinketli. 



Under the water it rumbled on, . 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 



Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The ancient Ma- 
sound ™^^ '® saved in 
Tin-- 1. 1 ' J i the Pilot's boat. 
Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days 

drown'd 
My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

75 



66 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The ancient Ma- 
riner earnestly en- 
treateth the Her- 
mit to shrive him ; 
and the penance 
of life falls on 
him. 



And ever and 
anon throughout 
his future life an 
agony constrain- 
eth him to travel 
from land to land. 



I moved my lips — the Pilot shriek'd, 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised h's eyes, 
And pray'd where he did sit. 

T took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the 

while 
His eyes went to and fro. 
" Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see. 
The Devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The Hermit stepp'd forth from the 

boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

" O shrive me, shrive me, holy man ! " 

The Hermit cross'd his brow. 

" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee 

say 
— What manner of man art thou?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrench'd 
With a woful agony. 
Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me bums. 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that 

door! 
The wedding-guests are there : 



But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark ! the little vesper-bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer. 



O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : - - — ^ 

So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 



V 



O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to nje, 
To walk together to the kirk. 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 
And all together pray, 
While each to his great Father bends. 
Old men, and babes, and loving 

friends. 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 

'He went like one that hath been 

stunn'd. 
And is of sense forlorn, 
A sadder and a vdser man 
He rose the morrow mom. 



And to teach, by 
his own example, 
love and rever- 
ence to all things 
that God made 
and loveth. 



eftti^teijel. 



PREFACE.* 



The first part of the following poem was written in 
the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
seven, at Stowey in the county of Somerset. The 
second part, after my return from Germany, in the 
year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cum- 
berland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers 
have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended 
animation. But as, in my very first conception of the 
tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the 
wholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a 
vision, I trust that I shall yet be able to embody in 
verse the three parts yet to come. 

It is probable, that if the poem had been finished 



* To the edition of 1816. 



at either of the former periods, or if even the first 
and second part had been published in the year 1800, 
the impression of its originality would have been 
much greater than I dare at present expect. But 
for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. 
The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose 
of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imi- 
tation from myself For there is amongst us a set of 
critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought 
and image is traditional ; who have no notion that there 
are such things as fountains in the world, small as 
well as great ; and who would therefore charitably 
derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perfora- 
tion made in some other man's tank. I am confident, 
however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, 
the celebrated poets whose writings I might be sus- 
pected of having imitated, either in particular pas- 
sages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, 
would be among the first to vindicate me from the 
76 



CHRISTABEL. 



67 



charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would 
permit me to address them in this doggrel version of 
two monkish Latin hexameters. 

'T is mine and it is likewise yours ; 
But an' if this will not do, 
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I 
Am the poorer of the two. 

I have only to add that the metre of the Christa- 
bel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it 
may seem so from its being founded on a new prin- 
ciple : namely, that of counting in each line the ac- 
cents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary 
from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents 
will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this oc- 
casional variation in number of syllables is not in- 
troduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of conveni- 
ence, but in correspondence with some transition, in 
the nature of the imagery or passion. 



CHRISTABEL. 



PART I. 

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock ; 

Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! 

And hark, again! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiffj which 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

Maketh answer to the clock. 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 

Sixteen short howls, not over-loud ; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides' the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well. 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the casrie gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that 's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke. 

The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 

And naught was green upon the oak. 

But moss and rarest misletoe : 

She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree, 

And in silence prayeth she. 



The lady sprang up suddenly, 

The lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moan'd as near, as near can be, 

But what it is, she caimot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be. 

Of the huse, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. 



The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 

There is not wind enough in the air 

To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can. 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 



There she sees a damsel bright, 
Drest in a silken robe of white, 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
The neck that made that white robe wan, 
Her stately neck, and arms, were bare ; 
Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were, 
And wildly glitter'd here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 

Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel), And who art thou ? 

The lady strange made answer meet, 

And her voice was faint and sweet :— 

Have pity on my sore distress, 

I scarce can speak for weariness : 

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 

Said Christabel, How camest thou here ? 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet. 

Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 



My sire is of a noble line, 
And my name is Geraldine : 
Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 
Me, even me, a maid forlorn '. 
They choked my cries with force and fright. 
And tied me on a palfrey white. 
The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 
And they rode furiously behind. 
They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white ; 
And once we cross'd the shade of night. 
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
I have no thought what men they be ,' 
Nor do I know how long it is 
(For I have lain entranced I wis) 
Since one, the tallest of the five, 
Took me from the palfrey's back, 
A weary woman, scarce alive. 
Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke ■ 
He placed me underneath this oak, 
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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He swore they would return with haste : 
Whither they went I cannot tell — 
I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
Sounds as of a castle-bell. 
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand, 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 

O well, bright dame ! may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal, 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble father's hall. 

She rose ; and forth with steps they pass'd 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 

All our household are at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health. 

And may not well awaken'd be, 

But we will move as if in stealth ; 

And I beseech your courtesy, 

Tlus night, to share your couch with me. 

They cross'd the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she open'd straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was iron'd vidthin and without. 

Where an army in battle array had march'd out. 

The lady sank, belike through pain, 

And Christabel with might and main 

Lifted her up, a weary weight. 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again. 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They cross'd the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the lady by her side. 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 

Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 

I cannot speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear. 

They cross'd the court : right glad they were. 

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake. 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
Never till now she utter'd yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, 
Pass as lightly as you will ! 
The brands were flat, the brands were dying, 
Amid their own white ashes lying : 



But when the lady pass'd, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 

And nothing else saw she thereliy, 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 

Wliich hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

O softly tread ! said Christabel, 

My father seldom sleepeth well. 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare ; 
And, jealous of the listening air. 
They steal their way from stair to stair : 
Now in glinuner, and now in gloom — 
And now they pass the Baron's room, 
As still as death wdth stifled breath ! 
And now have reach'd her chamber-door ; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The rushes of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 
And not a moonbeam enters here. 
But they without its light can see 
The chamber carved so curiously. 
Carved with figures strange and sweet. 
All made out of the carver's brain. 
For a lady's chamber meet : 
The lamp with twofold silver chain. 
Is fasten'd to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp bums dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, 

And left it swinging to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Geraldine, 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me, 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
Christabel answer' d — Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I wds bom. 
I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell. 
How on her death-bed she did say, 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 

But soon, wdth alter'd voice, said she — 
" Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
I have power to bid thee flee. " 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
" Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you! 
78 



CHRISTABEL. 



69 



The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
And faintly said, " 'T is over now ! " 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
And from the floor whereon she sank, 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see. 
Like a lady of a far countree. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 
All they, who live in the upper sky. 
Do love you, holy Christabel I 
And you love them, and for their sake 
And for the good which me befell. 
Even I in my degree will try, 
Fair maiden ! to requite you well. 
But now unrobe yourself; for I 
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 

Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro. 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the Lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd. 
And slowly roll'd her eyes aroimd ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud. 
Like one that shudder'd, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To lift some weight with sick assay. 
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took. 

Ah well-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say : 
In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell. 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare. 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heardest a low moaning, 



And foundest a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 

And didst bring her home with thee in love and in 

charity. 
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 

THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak-tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight. 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resign'd to bliss or bale — 
Her face, O call it fair, not pale ! 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
Each about to have a tear. 



With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis, 
Dreaming that alone, which is — 
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree ? 
And lo ! the worker of these harms. 
That holds the maiden in her arms, 
Seems to slumber still and mild, 
As a mother with her child. 



A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 
Thou 'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 
The night-birds all that hour were still. 
But now they are jubilant anew. 
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo! 
Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell ! 



And see ! the lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds- 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
And oft the while she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light ! 



Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
Like a youthful hermitess. 
Beauteous in a wilderness. 
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
And, if she move unquietly, 
Perchance, 't is but the blood so free. 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet : 
What if her guardian spirit 't were. 
What if she knew her mother near ? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
That saints will aid if men will call : 
For the blue sky bends over all ! 
79 



70 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



PART II. 

Each matin-bell, the Baron saith, 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said, 
When he rose and found his lady dead : 
These words Sir Leoline will say, 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began, 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
Five-and-forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell ! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still coimt as slowly as he can ! 
There is no lack of such, I ween. 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair 
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
Who all give back, one after t' other. 
The death-note to their living brother ; 
And oft too, by the knell offended. 
Just as their one ! two ! three I is ended, 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borrowdale. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud j 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white. 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 
And, nothing doubting of her spell, 
Awakens the lady Christabel. 
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 

The same who lay down by her side — 

O rather say, the same whom she 

Raised up beneath the old oak-tree ! 

Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 

For she belike hath drunken deep 

Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 

And while she spake, her looks, her air 

Such gentle thankfulness declare. 

That (so it seem'd) her girded vests 

Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 

" Sure I have sinn'd," said Christabel, 

" Now Heaven be praised if all be well ! 

And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 

Did she the lofty lady greet 

With such perplexity of mind 

As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly array'd 
Her maiden limbs, and having pray'd 
That He, who on the cross did groan, 
Might wash away her sins unknown. 



She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall. 
And, pacing on through page and groom. 
Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast. 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies. 
And gave such welcome to the same, 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he heard the lady's tale, 
And when she told her father's name, 
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 

But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 

And constancy lives in realms above, 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 

And to be wroth with one we love. 

Doth work like madness in the brain. 

And thus it chanced, as I divine, 

With Roland and Sir Leoline. 

Each spake words of high disdain 

And insult to his heart's best brother : 

They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 

But never either found "another 

To free the hollow heart from paining — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 

A dreary sea now flows between. 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 

Stood gazing on the damsel's face ; 

And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 

Came back upon his heart again. 

then the Baron forgot his age ! 

His noble heart swell'd high with rage ; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry. 

That they, who thus had wrong'd the dame, 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

" And if they dare deny the same, 

My herald shall appoint a week, 

And let the recreant traitors seek 

My tourney court — that there and then 

1 may dislodge their reptile souls 
From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenn'd 
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face, 
And fondly in his arms he took 
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
Prolonging it with joyous look. 



CHRISTABEL. 



71 



Which when she view'd, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

She shrunk and shudder'd, and saw again — 

(Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 

Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 

Again she saw that bosom old, 

Again she felt that bosom cold. 

And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 

Whereat the knight turn'd wildly round, 

And nothing saw but his own sweet maid 

With eyes upraised, as one that pray'd. 

The touch, the sight, had pass'd away. 

And in its stead, that vision blest, 

Which comforted her after-rest, 

While in the lady's arms she lay, 

Had put a rapture in her breast, 

And on her lips and o'er her eyes ^ 

Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
" What ails then my beloved child?" 
The Baron said— His daughter mild 
Made answer, " All will yet be well ! " 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deem'd her sure a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended. 
As if she fear'd she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she pray'd. 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

" Nay ! 
Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
" Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine : 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
And take the youth whom thou lovest best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song. 
And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
And over the mountains haste along. 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has cross'd the Irthing flood, 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth wood, 
And reaches soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

" Bard Bracy, bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet, 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 
More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free- 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 
With all thy numerous array ; 
And take thy lovely daughter home t 
And he will meet thee on the way 



With all his numerous array. 
White with their panting palfreys' foam ; 
And by mine honor ! I will say. 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of high disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! 
— For since that evil hour hath flown. 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 

The Lady fell, and clasp'd his knees. 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice. 
Her gracious hail on all bestowing ; — 
Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me , 
That I had vow'd with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 
For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
Sir Leoline ! 1 saw the same. 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
Which when I saw and when I heard, 
I wonder 'd what might ail the bird : 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the 
old tree. 

And in my dream, methought, I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peer'd, and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stoop'd, methought, the dove to take. 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coil'd around its wings and neck. 
Green as the herbs on which it couch'd. 
Close by the dove's its head it crouch'd ! 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 
Swelling its neck as she swell'd hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour, 
The clock was echoing in the tower; 
But though my slumber was gone by. 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vow'd this self-same day. 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare. 
Lest aught unholy loiter there. 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while. 
Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
Then turn'd to Lady Geraldine, 
His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
And said in courtly accents fine. 
Sweet Maid ! Lord Roland's beauteous dove. 
With arms more strong than harp or song, 
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Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! 


The same, for whom thy lady died. 


He kiss'd her forehead as he spake, 


by the pangs of her dear mother. 


And Gerald ine in maiden wise, 


Think t^hou no evil of thy child ! 


Casting down her large bright eyes, 


For her, and thee, and for no other. 


With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 


She pray'd the moment ere she died ; 


She turn'd her from Sir Leoline ; 


Pray'd that the babe for whom she died 


Softly gathering up her train. 


Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride ! 


That o'er her right arm fell again ; 


That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 


And folded her arms across her chest, 


Sir Leoline ! 


And couch'd her head upon her breast, 


And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 


And look'd askance at Christabel 


Her child and thine ? 


Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 






Within the Baron's heart and brain 


A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 


If thoughts like these had any share, 


And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 


They only swell'd his rage and pain. 


Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 


And did but work confusion there. 


And with somewhat of malice and more of dread, 


His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 


At Christabel she look'd askance : — 


His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild. 


One moment — and the sight was fled ! 


Dishonor'd thus in his old age ; 


But Christabel, in dizzy trance 


Di^onor'd by his only child, 
And all his hospitality 


Stumbling on the unsteady ground. 


Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound ; 


1 To the insulted daughter of his friend 


And Geraldine again turn'd round. 


By more than woman's jealousy 


And like a thing, that sought relief. 


Brought thus to a disgraceful end- 


Full of wonder and full of grief) 


He roll'd his eye with stern regard 


She roll'd her large bright eyes divine 


Upon the gentle minstrel bard, 


Wildly on Sir Leoline. 


And said in tones abrupt, austere, 




Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 


The maid," alas ! her thoughts are gone, 


I bade thee hence ! The Bard obey'd ; 


She nothing sees — ^no sight but one ! 


And, turning from his own sweet maid, 


The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 


The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 


I know not how, in fearful wise 


Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 


So deeply had she drunken in 




That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 


THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 


That all her features were resign'd 




To this sole image in her mind : 


A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 


And passively did imitate 


Singing, dancing to itself. 


That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 


A fairy thing with red round cheeks 


And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 


That always finds and never seeks. 


Still picturing that look askance 


Makes such a vision to the sight 


With forced, unconscious sympathy 


As fills a father's eyes vdth hght ; 


Full before her father's view — — 


And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 


As far as such a look could be, 


Upon his heart, that he at last 


In eyes so mnocent and blue. 


Must needs express his love's excess 


And when the trance was o'er, the maid 


With words of unmeant bitterness. 


Paused awhile, and inly pray'd : 


Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 


Then falling at the Baron's feet. 


Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 


" By my mother's soul do I entreat 


To mutter and mock a broken charm. 


That thou this woman send away ! " 


To dally with wrong that does no harm. 


She said : and more she could not say ; 


Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 


For what she knew she could not tell, 


At each wild word to feel within 


O'ermaster'd by the mighty spell. 


A sweet recoil of love and pity. 




And what, if in a world of sin 


Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 


(0 sorrow and shame should this be true) I 


Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 


Such giddiness of heart and braia 


Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 


Comes seldom save from rage and pain. 


So fair, &o innocent so mild ; 


So talks as it's most used to do. 

82 



REMORSE. 



73 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSON-ffi. 



MARauis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, mid 

Donna Teresa's Guardian. 
Don Alvar, the eldest son. 
Don Ordonio, the youngest son. 
MoNviEDRO, a Dominican and Inquisitor. 
ZuLiMEz, the faithful attendant on Alvar. 
Isidore, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian. 
Familiars of the Inquisition. 
Naomi. 

Moors, Servants, etc. 
Donna Teresa, an Orphan Heiress. 
Alhadra, Wife to Isidore. 

Time. The reign of Philip 11., just at the close of 
the civil wars against the Moors, and during the 
heat of the persecution which raged against them, 
shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing 
of Moresco apparel under pain of death. 



REMORSE. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 
TJie Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada. 

Don Alvar, torapt in a Boat-cloak, and Zulimez 
(a Moresco), both as just landed 

zulimez. 
No sound, no face of joy to welcome us ! 

ALVAR. 

My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment 
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes. 
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling, 
'Tis surely this — after long years of exile. 
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us. 
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place. 
Hail, Spain ! Granada, hail ! once more I press 
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers ! 

zulimez. 
Then claim your rights in it ! O, revered Don Alvar, 
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose. 
It is too hazardous ! reveal yourself, 
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt ! 

ALVAR. 

Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother: 
Injured, indeed ! O deeply injured ! yet 
Ordonio's brother. 

zulimez. 
Nobly-minded Alvar ! 
Thus sure but givies his guilt a blacker dye. 

ALVAR. 

The more behoves it, I should rouse within him 
' that I should save him from himself. 



zulimez. 
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows : 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy. 
It is a poison-tree that, pierced to the inmost, 
Weeps only tears of poison. 

ALVAR. 

And of a brother, 
Dare I hold this, unproved ? nor make one effort. 
To save him 1 — Hear me, friend ! I have yet to tell thee, 
That this same life, which he conspired to take. 
Himself once rescued from the angry flood, 
And at the imminent hazard of his own. 
Add too my oatli — 

ZULIMEZ. 

You have thrice told already 
The years of absence and of secrecy. 
To which a forced oath bound you : if in truth 
A suborn'd murderer have the power to dictate 
A binding oath — 

ALVAR. 

My long captiArity 
Left me no choice : the very Wish too languish'd 
With the fond Hope that nursed it ; the sick babe 
Droop'd at the bosom of its famish'd mother. 
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy ,• 
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest. 
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood : 
In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience. 
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose 
The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast, 
Fell from his palsied hand — 

ZULIMEZ. 

Heavy presumption ! 

ALVAR. 

It weigh'd not with me — Hark! I will tell thee all: 
As we pass'd by, I bade thee mark the base 
Of yonder cliff— 

ZULIMEZ. 

That rocky seat you mean^ 
Shaped by the billows ? — 

ALVAR. 

There Teresa met me, 
The morning of the day of my departure. 
We were alone : the purple hue of dawn 
Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us. 
And, blending with the blushes on her cheek. 
Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light. 
There seem'd a glory round us, and Teresa 
The angel of the vision! [Then with agitation. 

Hadst thou seen 
How in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beam'd forth and brighten'd, thou thyself wouldst 

tell me. 
Guilt is a thing impossible in her ! 
She must be innocent ! 

ZULIMEZ (with a sigh). 

Proceed, my Lord ! 
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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ALVAR. 

A portrait which she had procured by stealth 

(For ever then it seems her heart foreboded 

Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry), 

A portrait of herself with thrilling hand 

She tied around my neck, conjuring me 

With earnest prayers, that T would keep it sacred 

To my own knowledge : nor did she desist. 

Till she had won a solemn promise from me, 

That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it 

Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew, 

Knew that which none but she could have disclosed. 

ZULIMEZ. 

A damning proof! 

ALVAR. 

My own life wearied me ! 
And but for the imperative Voice within, 
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen. 
That Voice, which quell'd me, calm'd me : and I 

sought 
The Belgic states ; there join'd the better cause ; 
And there too fought as one that courted death! 
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying, 
In death-hke trance : a long imprisonment follow'd. 
The fullness of my anguish by degrees 
Waned to a meditative melancholy ; 
And still, the more I mused, my soul became 
More doubtful, more perplex'd; and still Teresa, 
Night after night, she visited my sleep, 
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful, 
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me ! 
Yes, still, as in contempt of proof and reason, 
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless ! 
Hear then my fix'd resolve : I '11 linger here 
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain. — 
The Moorish robes ? — 

ZULIMEZ. 

All, all are in the sea-cave, 
Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners 
Secrete the boat there. 

ALVAR. 

Above all, the picture 
Of the assassination — 

ZULIMEZ. 

Be assured 
That it remains uninjured. 

ALVAR. 

Thus disguised, 
I will first seek to meet Ordonio's — wife ! 
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk. 
And this the hour ; her words, her very looks 
Will acquit her or convict. 

ZULIMEZ. 

Will they not know you? 

ALVAR. 

With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly 
Trust the disguise ; and as to my complexion, 
My long imprisonment, the scanty food. 
This scar, — and toil beneath a burning sun. 
Have done already half the business for us. 
Add too my youth, when last we saw each other. 
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice 
A hoarser note — Besides, they think me dead : 
And what the mind believes impossible. 
The bodily sense is slow to recognize. 

ZULIMEZ. 

'Tis yours, Sir, to command ; mine to obey. 



Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock. 
Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain, 
I will seek our mariners ; and in the dusk 
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell 
In the Alpuxarras — there where Zagri lived. 

ALVAR. 

I luiow it well : it is the obscurest haunt 

Of all the moiuitains — [Both stand listening. 

Voices at a distance ! 
Let us away ! [Exeunt, 



SCENE II. 



Enter Teresa and Valdez. 

TERESA. 

I hold Ordonio dear ; he is your son 
And Alvar's brother. 

valdez. 

Love him for himself, 
Nor make the living wretched for the dead. 

TERESA. 

I mourn that you should plead in vain. Lord Valdez; 
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain 
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living. 

VALDEZ. 

Heaven knows vvdth what delight I saw your loves, 
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee, 
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts;. 
Thy dying father comes upon my soul 
With that same look, with which he gave thee to mej 
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe. 
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty 
Fix'd her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this. 
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom, 
And with slow anguish wear away thy life. 
The victim of a useless constancy, 
I must not see thee wretched. 

TERESA. 

There are woes 
lU-barter'd for the garishness of joy ! 
If it be wretched with an untired eye 
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean; 
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock, 
My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze, 
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again 
All past hours of delight ! If it be wretched 
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there. 
To go through each minutest circumstance 
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures 
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them ; 
* (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid 
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes. 
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft 
Hung with her lute, and play'd the selfsame tune 
He used to play, and listen'd to the shadow 
Herself had made) — if this be wretchedness. 
And if indeed it be a wretched thing 
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine 
That I had died, died just ere his return ! 
Then see him listening to my constancy. 
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft 



* Here Valdez bends back, and smiles at her wildness, 
which Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a sooth- 
ing half-playful tone and manner, apologizes for her fancy, 
by the little tale in the parenthesis. 

84 



REMORSE. 



75 



Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon ; 

Or haply, in some more fantastic mood, 

To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers 

Build up a bower where he and I might dwell, 

And there to wait his coming ! O my sire ! 

My Alvar's sire ! if this be wretchedness 

That eats away the life, what were it, think you, 

If in a most assured reality 

He should return, and see a brother's infant 

Smile at him from my arms ? 

Oh, what a thought ! [Clasping her forehead. 

VALDEZ. 

A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought. 

The very week he promised his return 

TERESA {abruptly). 
Was it not then a busy joy ? to see him, 
After those three years' travels ! we had no fears — 
The frequent tidings, the ne'er-failing letter, 
Almost endear'd his absence ! Yet the gladness. 
The tumult of our joy ! What then if now 

VALDEZ. 

power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts, 
Spite of conviction ! I am old and heartless ! 
Yes, I am old — I have no pleasant fancies — 
Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest — 

TERESA {with great tenderness) 

My father! 

VALDEZ. 

The sober truth is all too much for me ! 

1 see no sail which brings not to ray mind 

The home-bound bark in which my son was captured 
By the Algerine — to perish with his captors ! 

TERESA. . 

Oh no ! he did not ! 

VALDEZ. 

Captured in sight of land ! 
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower 
We might have seen 

TERESA. 

His capture, not his death. 

VALDEZ. 

Alas ! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale 

Thou ne'er didst wish to learn ! my brave Ordonio 

Saw both the pirate and his prize go down. 

In the same storm that baffled his own valor. 

And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes : 

Gallant Ordonio ! {pauses ; then tenderly). O beloved 

Teresa ! 
Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar, 
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou 
His brother happy, make his aged father 
Sink to the grave in joy. 

TERESA. 

For mercy's sake, 
Press me no more ! I have no power to love him. 
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow, 
Chill me hke dew damps of the unwholesome night : 
My love, a timorous and tender flower, 
Closes beneath his touch. 

VALDEZ. 

You wrong him, maiden ! 
You wrong him, by my soul ! Nor was it well 
To character by such unkindly phrases 
The stir and workings of that love for you 
Which he has toil'd to smother, 'T was not well, 
Nor is it grateful in you to forget 



His wounds and perilous voyages, and how 

With an heroic fearlessness of danger 

He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. 

It was not well — You have moved me even to tears. 

TERESA. 

Oh pardon me. Lord Valdez ! pardon me ! 

It was a foolish and ungrateful speech, 

A most ungrateful speech ! But I am hurried 

Beyond myself, if I but hear of one 

Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not 

Born in one day, like twins of the same parent ? 

Nursed in one cradle ? Pardon me, my father ! 

A six years' absence is a heavy thing, 

Yet still the hope survives 

VALDEZ {looking forward). 
Hush! 'tis Monviedro. 

TERESA 

The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of blood ? 

Enter Monviedro with Alhadra. 

MONVIEDRO {having first made his obeisance to 
Valdez and Teresa). 

Peace and the truth be with you ! Good my Lord, 
My present need is with your son. 

[LooTcing forward. 
We have hit the time. Here comes he ! Yes, 'tis he. 

Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio. 

My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman 
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you. 

ORDONIO. 

Hail, reverend father! what may be the business? 

MONVIEDRO. 

My Lord, on strong suspicion of relapse 

To his false creed, so recently abjured, 

The secret servants of the inquisition 

Have seized her husband, and at my command 

To the supreme tribunal would have led him, 

But that he made appeal to you, my Lord, 

As surety for his soundness in the faith. 

Though lessen'd by experience what small trust 

The asseverations of these Moors deserve, 

Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name. 

Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honor 

The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers. 

Thus far prevail'd with me that 

ORDONIO. 

Reverend father, 
I am much beholden to your high opinion, 
Which so o'erprizes my light services. 

[Then to Alhadra. 
I would that I could serve you ; but in truth 
Your face is new to me. 

MONVIEDRO. 

My mind foretold me. 
That such would be the event. In truth. Lord Valdez, 
'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio, 
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely 
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors, 
Should prove the patron of this infidel ! 
The guarantee of a Moresco's faith ! 
Now I return. 

ALHADRA. 

My Lord, my husband's name 
Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.) — You may remember it: 
85 



76 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Three years ago, three years this very week, 
You left him at Almeria. 

MONVIEDRO. 

Palpably false ! 
This very week, three years ago, my Lord 
(Tou needs must recollect it by your wound), 
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, 
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar I 

[Teresa looks at Monviedro vAth disgust and 
horror. Ordonio's appearance to he collected 
from wMt follows. 
monviedro {to Valdez, and pointing at Ordonio). 
What ! is he ill, my Lord ? how strknge he looks ! 

valdez {angrily). 
You press'd upon him too abruptly, father, 
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted. 

ORDONIO {starthig as in sudden agitation). 

Heavens ! / ? I — doted ? {then recovering himself). 

Yes ! I doted on him. 
[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, 
Valdez follows, soothing him. 
TERESA {her eye following Ordonio). 

1 do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard ? 
Is my heart hard ? that even now the thought 
Should force itself upon me ? — Yet I feel it ! 

MONVIEDRO. 

The drops did start and stand upon his forehead ! 

I will return. In very truth, I grieve 

To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman ! 

ALHADRA {tO TeRESA). 

gentle lady ! make the father stay, 
Until my Lord recover. I am sure. 

That he will say he is my husband's friend. 

TERESA. 

Stay, father ! stay ! my Lord will soon recover. 

ORDONIO {as they return, to Valdez). 
Strange, that this Monviedro 
Should have the power so to distemper me ! 

VALDEZ. 

Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son! 

MONVIEDRO. 

My Lord, I truly grieve 

ORDONIO. 

Tut ! name it not. 
A sudden seizure, father ! think not of it. 
As to this woman's husband, I do know him. 
I know him well, and that he is a Christian. 

MONVIEDRO. 

1 hope, my Lord, your merely human pity 
Doth not prevail 

ORDONIO. 

"'TIS certain that he was a Catholic ; 

What changes may have happen'd in three years, 

I cannot say ; but grant me this, good father : 

Myself I'll sift him : if I find him sound. 

You'll grant me your authority and name 

To liberate his house. 

MONVIEDRO. 

Your zeal, my Lord, 
And your late merits in this holy warfare. 
Would authorize an ampler trust — ^you have it. 

ORDONIO. 

I will attend you home within an hour. 

VALDEZ. 

Meantime, return with us and take refreshment. 



ALHADRA. 

Not till my husband 's free ! I may not do it 
I will stay here. 

TERESA {aside). 
Who is this Isidore ? 

VALDEZ. 

Daughter ! 

TERESA. 

With your permission, my dear Lord, 

I '11 loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze. 

[Exeura Valdez, Monviedro, and Ordonio. 

ALHADRA. 

Hah ! there he goes ! a bitter curse go with him, 

A scathing curse ! 

{Then as if recollecting herself and with a timid look). 

You hate him, don't you, lady ? 
TERESA {perceiving that Alhadra is conscious she has 

spoken imprudently). 
Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for you. 

ALHADRA. 

These fell inquisitors ! these sons of blood ! 
As I came on, his face so madden'd me, 
That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger 
And half unsheathed it 

TERESA. 

Be more calm, I pray you. 

ALHADRA. 

And as he walked along the narrow path 

Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager ; 

'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember 

That his Familiars held my babes and husband. 

To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge, 

And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice, 

O, it had been most sweet ! 

TERESA. 

Hush ! hush for shame ! 
Where is your woman's heart ? 

ALHADRA. 

O gentle lady ! 
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs. 
Many and strange ! Besides {ironically)^ I am a Chris- 
tian, 
And Christians never pardon — 'tis their faith! 

TERESA. 

Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee ! 

ALHADRA. 

I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me. 
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent), 
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me. 

TERESA. 

What might your crime be ? 

ALHADRA. 

I was a Moresco ! 
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, 
Into a dungeon of their prison-house. 
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light, 
No touch, no sound of comfort I The black air, 
It was a toil to breathe it ! when the door. 
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed 
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame 
Cower'd as it enter'd, and at once sunk down. 
Oh miserable ! by that lamp to see 
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread 
Brought daily : for the little wretch was sickly—^ 
My rage had dried away its natural food. 
In darkness I remain'd — the dull bell counting, 



REMORSE. 



77 



Which haply told me, that all the all-cheering Sun 
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed, 
My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers 
And waked me. — If you were a mother, Lady, 
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises 
And peevish cries so frqtted on my brain 
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger. 



O Heaven ! it 



TERESA. 

too horrible to hear. 



ALHADRA. 

What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right 
That such as you should hear it. — Know you not, 
What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal ? 
Great Evils ask great Passions to redress them, 
And Whirlwinds fitliest scatter Pestilence. 

TERESA. 

You were at length released ? 

ALHADRA. 

Yes, at length 
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven ! 
'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more— 
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady, 
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again 
All I then was — my knees hang loose and drag, 
And my Up falls with such an idiot laugh, 
That you would start and shudder ! 

TERESA. 

But your husband — 

ALHADRA. 

A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady. 

TERESA. 

Alas, poor man ! 

ALHADRA. 

He hath a lion's courage, 
Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance ; 
Unfit for boisterous times, -with gentle heart 
He worships Nature in the hill ana valley, 
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all— 

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish 
garments. 

TERESA. 

Know you that stately Moor ? 

ALHADRA. 

I know him not : 
But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain, 
Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras. 

TERESA. 

The Alpuxarras ? Does he know his danger, 
So near this seat ? 

ALHADRA. 

He wears the Moorish robes too. 
As in defiance of the royal edict. 

[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to 
the hack of the stage near the rocks. Teresa 
drops her veil. 

ALHADRA. 

Gallant Moresco ! An inquisitor, 
Monviedro, of known hatred to our race 

ALVAR (interrupting her). 
You have mistaken me. I am a Christian. 

ALHADRA. 

He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him': 
Speak to him. Lady — ^none can hear you speak, 
And not believe you innocent of guile. 



TERESA. 

If aught enforce you to concealment. Sir 

ALHADRA. 

He trembles strangely. 

[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his robe. 

TERESA. 

See, we have disturb'd him. 

[Approaches nearer to him. 
I pray you think us friends — uncowl your face, 
For you seem faint, and the night breeze blows healing. 
I pray you think us friends ! 

ALVAR {raising his head). 

Calm, very calm ! 
'Tis all too tranquil for reality ! 
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice. 
That voice," that innocent voice ! She is no traitress ! 

TERESA. 

Let us retire. (Haughtily to Alhadra). 

[They advance to the front of the Stage. 

ALHADRA (with SCOm). 

He is indeed a Christian. 

ALVAR (aside). 
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment! 
Why should my brother's — wife — wear mourning- 
garments? 

[To Teresa, 
Your pardon, noble dame ! that I disturb'd you : 
I had just started from a frightful dream. 

TERESA. 

Dreams tell but of the Past, and yet, 'tis said, 
They prophesy — 

ALVAR. 

The Past lives o'er again 
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit 
The ever-frowning Present is its image. 

TERESA. 

Traitress! (Then aside). 

What sudden spell o'ermasters me ? 
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman? 
[Teresa looks round uneasily, but gradually be- 
comes attentive as Alvar proceeds in th& 
next speech. 

alvar. 
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant 
With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid. 
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me : 
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. 
This maid so idolized that trusted friend 
Dishonor'd in my absence, soul and body ! 
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, 
And murderers were subom'd against my hfe. 
But by my looks, and most impassion'd words, 
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man. 
Even in the assassins' hearts ! they made their terms^ 
And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder. 

ALHADRA. 

You are lost in thought : hear him no more, sweet Lady ! 

TERESA. 

From mom to night I am myself a dreamer, 
And slight things bring on me the idle mood ! 
Well, Sir, what happen'd then ? 

ALVAR. 

On a rude rock, 
A rock, methought, fest by a grove of firs, 
Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing galo 
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean» 

87 



78 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I stay'd as though the hour of death were pass'd, 
And I were sitting in the world of spirits — 
For all things seem'd iinreal ! There I sate — 
The dews fell clammy, and tlie night descended, 
Black, sultry, close ! and ere the midnight hour, 
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear, 
That woods, and sky, and mountains, seem'd one 

havoc. 
The second flash of lightning show'd a tree 
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous : 
My soul work'd high, I bared my head to the storm 
And, with loud voice and clamorous agony, 
Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me, 
Pray'd that Remorse might fasten on their hearts, 
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable 
As the gored lion's bite ! 

TERESA {shuddering). 

A fearful curse ! 

ALHADRA {fiercely). 
But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd them? 
Dreamt you of no revenge ? 

ALVAR (his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress). 

She would have died, 
Died in her guilt- — perchance by her own hands ! 
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds, 
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy, 
And leapt myself into an unblest grave ! 
I pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts: 
For still I loved her ! 

ALHADRA. 

And you dreamt all this ? 

TERESA. 

My soul is full of visions all as wild ! 

ALHADRA. 

There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales. 
TERESA (lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar). 
Stranger, farewell ! I guess not who you are, 
Nor why you so address'd your tale to me. 
Your mien is noble, and, I ovra, perplex'd me 
With obscure memory of somethuig past, 
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented 
Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long wishing. 
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling 
Whilst your full heart was shapmg out its dream. 
Drove you to this, your not ungentle wildness — 
You have my S5rmpathy, and so farewell ' 
But if some undiscover'd wrongs oppress you. 
And you need strength to drag them into light. 
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio, 
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer ; 
Nor shall you want my favorable pleading. 

[Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra. 

ALVAR (alone). 
'Tis strange ! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio ! 
Her Lord Ordonio! Nay, I will not do it! 
I cursed him once — and one curse is enough ! 
How bad she look'd, and pale ! but not like guilt — 
And her calm tones — sweet as a song of mercy ! 
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice. 
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent ? 
Who meant to miu-der me, might well cheat her ? 
But ere she married him, he had stain'd her honor ; 
Ah ! there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie 
Framed by the assassin ? Who should tell it him, 
If it were truth ? Ordonio would not tell him. 
Yet why one he ? all else, I know, was truth. 



No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience ! 
And she referr'd to me — fondly, methought ! 
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress ? 
Here, where we play'd together in our childhood? 
Here, where we plighted vows? where her cold 

cheek 
Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd feelings 
She had fainted in my arms ? It cannot be ! 
'T is not in Nature ! I will die, believing 
That I shall meet her where no evil is. 
No treachery, no cup dash'd from the lips. 
I '11 haunt this scene no more ! live she in peace ! 
Her husband — ay, her husband ! May this angel 
New mould Ms canker'd heart ! Assist me, Heaven, 
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother! [Exit. 



ACT n. 

SCENE L 

A wild and mountainous Country. Ordonio and Isi- 
dore are discovered, supposed at a little distance 
from Isidore's house. 

ORDONIO. 

Here we may stop : your house distinct in view» 
Yet we secured from listeners. 

ISIDORE. 

Now indeed 
My house ! and it looks cheerful as the clusters 
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock, 
That over-brows it ! Patron ! Friend ! Preserver ! 
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle 
You gave it me : next rescued me from suicide. 
When for my follies I was made to wander, 
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for thera 
Now, but for you, a dungeon's shmy stones 
Had been my bed and pillow. 

ORDONIO. 

Good Isidore 1 
Why this to me ? It is enough, you know it. 

ISIDORE. 

A common trick of Gratitude, my Lord, 
Seeking to ease her own full heart 

ORDONIO. 

Enough, 
A debt repaid ceases to be a debt. 
You have it in your power to serve me greatly. 

ISIDORE. 

And hdw, my Lord ? I pray you to name the thing. 
I would climb up an ice-glaz'd precipice 
To pluck a weed you fancied ! 

ORDONIO {with embarrassment and hesitation). 

Why— thal^-Lady — 

ISIDORE. 

'Tis now three years, my Lord, since last I saw you* 
Have you a son, my Lord ? 

ORDONIO. 

O miserable — [Aside 
Isidore ! you are a man, and know mankind. 
I told you what I wish'd — now for the truth ! — 
She lov'd the man you kill'd. 

ISIDORE (looking as suddenly alarmed). 

You jest, my Lord ? 

ORDONIO. 

And till his death is proved, she will not wed me. 

88 



REMORSE. 



79 



ISIDORE. 

You sport with me, my Lord ? 

ORDONIO. 

Come, come ! this foolery 
Lives only in thy looks : thy heart disowns it ! 

ISIDORE. 

I can bear this, and any thing more grievous 

From you, my Lord — but how can I serve you here ? 

ORDONIO. 

Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture 

Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning. 

Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics— 

ISIDORE. 

I am dull, my Lord ! I do not comprehend you. 

ORDONIO. 

In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer. 
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 't is true : 
Her lover school'd her in some newer nonsense ! 
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her. 
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive. 
Shivers, and cannot keep the tears in her eye : 
And such do love the marvellous too well 
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy 
With a strange music, that she knows not of — 
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery. 
Then leave, as one sure token of his death. 
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck 
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest. 

ISIDORE. 

Will that be a sure sign ? 

ORDONIO. 

Beyond suspicion. 
Fondly caressing him, her favor'd lover 
(By some base spell he had bewitch'd her senses), 
She whisper'd such dark fears of me, forsooth, 
As made this heart pour gall into my veins. 
And as she coyly bound it round his neck. 
She made him promise silence ; and now holds 
The secret of the existence of this portrait, 
Known only to her lover and herself 
But I had traced her, stolen unnoticed on them. 
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole. 

ISIDORE. 

But now I should have cursed the man who told me 
You could ask aught, my Lord, and I refuse — 
But this I cannot do. 

ORDONIO. 

Where lies your scruple ? 

ISIDORE {with stammering). 

Why — why, my Lord ! 
You know you told me that the lady loved you. 
Had loved you with incautious tenderness ; 
That if the young man, her betrothed husband. 
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honor of both 
Must perish. Now, though with no tenderer scruples 
Than those which being native to the heart, 
Than those, my Lord, which merely being a man — 
ORDONIO {aloud, though to express his contempt 
he speaks in the third person). 
This fellow is a Man — he kill'd for hire 
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples ! 

[Then turning to Isidore. 
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammer- 
ing- 
Pish, fool ! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt, 
Spelling thy villany. 

' M 



ISIDORE. 

My Lord — my Lord, 
I can bear much — ^yes, very much from you ! 
But there 's a point where sufferance is meanness : 
I am no villain — never kill'd for hire — 
My gratitude 

ORDONIO. 

O ay — your gratitude ! 
'Twas a well-sounding word — what have you done 
with it ? 

ISIDORE. 

Who proffers his past favors for my virtue — 
ORDONIO {mth bitter scorn). 

Virtue ! 

ISIDORE. 

Tries to o'erreach me — is a very sharper, 
And should not speak of gratitude, my Lord. 
I knew not 'twas your brother ! 

ORDONIO {alarmed). 

And who told you ? 

ISIDORE. 

He himself told me. 

ORDONIO. 

Ha ! you talk'd with him ! 
And those, the two Morescoes who were with you ? 

ISIDORE. 

Both fell in a night-brawl at Malaga. 
ORDONIO {in a low voice). 

My brother— 

ISIDORE. 

Yes, my Lord, I could not tell you ! 

I thrust away the thought — it drove me wild. 

But listen to me now — I pray you listen 

ORDONIO. 

Villain ! no more ! I '11 hear no more of it. 

ISIDORE. 

My Lord, it much imports your future safety 
That you should hear it. 

ORDONIO {turning off from Isidore.) 
Am not I a Man ! 
'Tis as it should be ! tut — the deed itself 
Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler I 

ISIDORE. 

We met him in the very place you mention'd. 
Hard by a grove of firs — 

ORDONIO. 

Enough — enough — 

ISIDORE. 

He fought us valiantly, and wounded all ; 
In fine, compell'd a parley. 



ORDONIO 



as if lost in thougJit). 
Alvar! brother! 



ISIDORE. 

He offer'd me his purse — 

ORDONIO {with eager suspicion). t 

Yes? 
ISIDORE {indignantly). 

Yes — I spurn'd it. — 
He promised us I know not what — in vain.' 
Then with a look and voice that overawed me. 
He said. What mean you, friends ? My life is dear : 
I have a brother and a promised wife. 
Who make life dear to me — and if I fall, 
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance. 
There was a likeness in his face to yours ; 
I ask'd his brother's name : he said — Ordonio, 
89 



80 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Son of Lord Valdez ! I had well-nigh fainted. 
At length I said (if that indeed I said it, 
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ), 
That woman is dishonor'd by that brother. 
And he the man who sent us to destroy you. 
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him, 
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd 
As he had been made of the rock that propt his 

back — 
Ay, just as you look now — only less ghastly ! 
At length, recovering from his trance, he threw 
His sword away, and bade us take his life, 
It was not worth his keeping. 

ORDONIO. 

And you kill'd him ? 

Oh blood-hounds! may eternal wrath flame round 
you! 

He was his Maker's Image undefaced ! [A pause. 

It seizes me — by Hell, I will go on ! 

What — wouldst thou stop, man ? thy pale looks won't 
save thee ! [A pause. 

Oh cold — cold — cold ! shot through with icy cold ! 
ISIDORE {aside). 

Were he alive, he had return'd ere now — 

The consequence the same — dead through his plot- 
ting! 

ORDONIO. 

O this unutterable dying away — ^here — 

This sickness of the heart ! [A pause. 

What if I went 
And lived in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds ? 
Ay ! that 's the road to heaven ! O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

[A pause. 
What have I done but that which nature destined. 
Or the blind elements stirr'd up within me ? 
If good were meant, why were we made these Be- 
ings? 
And if not meant — 

ISIDORE. 

You are disturb'd, my Lord ! 
ORDONIO (starts, looks at him wildly; then, after a 

pause, during which his features are forced into 

a smile). 
A gust of the soul ! i' faith, it overset me. 

'twas all folly — all ! idle as laughter! 
Now, Isidore ! I swear that thou shalt aid me. 

ISIDORE (in a low voice). 

1 '11 perish first ! 

ORDONIO. 

What dost thou mutter of? 

ISIDORE. 

Some of your servants know me, I am certain. 

ORDONIO. 

There 's some sense in that scruple ; but we '11 mask 
you. 

ISIDORE. 

They '11 know my gait : but stay ! last night I watch'd 
A stranger near the ruin in the wood. 
Who as it seem'd was gathering herbs and wild flow- 
ers. 
I had follow'd him at distance, seen him scale 
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance 
Stole after him unnoticed. There I mark'd, 
That, 'mid the chequer-work of light and shade, 
With curious choice he pluck'd no other flowers 
But those on which the moonlight fell : and once 
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard — 
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment. 



ORDONIO. 

Doubtless you question'd him ? 

ISIDORE. 

'Twas my intention. 
Having first traced him homeward to his haunt. 
But lo ! the stern Dominican, whose spies 
Lurk everywhere, already (as it seem'd) 
Had given commission to his apt familiar 
To seek and sound the Moor ; who now returning. 
Was by this trusty agent stopp'd midway. 
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him 
In that lone place, again conceal'd myself. 
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd. 
And in your name, as lord of this domain. 
Proudly he answer'd, " Say to the Lord Ordonio, 
He that can bring the dead to life again ! " 

ORDONIO. 

A strange reply ! 

ISIDORE. 

Ay, all of him is strange. 
He call'd himself a Christian, yet he wears 
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death. 

ORDONIO. 

Where does this wizard live ? 

ISIDORE (pointing to the distance). 

You see that brooklet! 
Trace its course backward : through a narrow opening 
It leads you to the place. 

ORDONIO. 

How shall I know it ? 

ISIDORE. 

You cannot err. It is a small green dell 
Built all around with high ofl^'-sloping hills, 
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it 
The Giant's Cradle. There 's a lake in the midst. 
And round its banks tall wood that branches over. 
And makes a kind of faery forest grow 
Down in the water. At the further end 
A puny cataract falls on the lake ; 
And there, a curious sight ! you see its shadow 
For ever curling like a wreath of smoke, 
Up through the foliage of those faery trees. 
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it. 

ORDONIO (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the 

scene, and then turning round to Isidore). 
Ha ! — Who lurks there ? Have we been overheard ? 
There, where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glit- 
ters — 

ISIDORE. 

'Neath those tall stones, which, propping each the 

other. 
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch ! 
Pardon my smiles ! 'T is a poor Idiot Boy, 
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about, 
His weak eyes seethed in most unmeaning tears. 
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head ; 
And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-set. 
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises ! 

ORDONIO. 

'Tis well! and now for this same Wizard's Lair. 

ISIDORE. 

Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash 
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters 
O'er the old thatch. 

ORDONIO. 

I shall not fail to find it. 
[Exeunt Ordonio and IsiooKjc. 
90 



REMORSE. 



81 



SCENE II. 

TAe Inside of a Cottage, around which Flowers and 
Plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar, 
ZuLiMEZ, and Alhadra, as on the point of leaving 

ALHADRA (addressing Alvar). 
Farewell, then ! and though many thoughts perplex 

me, 
Aught evil or ignoble never can I 
Suspect of thee ! If vi^hat thou seem'st thou art, 
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need 
Of such a leader. 

ALVAR. 

Noble-minded woman ! 

Long time against oppression have I fought, 

And for the native liberty of faith 

Have bled, and suffer'd bonds. Of this be certain : 

Time, as he courses onwards, still unrolls 

The volume of Concealment. In the Future, 

As in the optician's glassy cylinder. 

The indistinguishable blots and colors 
^ Of the dim Past collect and shape themselves, 
I Upstarting in their own completed image 
^ To scare or to reward. 

i I sought the guilty, 

j And what I sought I found : but ere the spear 
Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form 
Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose 
I To the Avenger I leave Vengeance, and depart ! 

I Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid. 
Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee : 
For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble. 
Once more, farewell. 

j [Exit Alhadra. 

i Yes, to the Belgic states 

We will return. These robes, this stain'd complexion, 
Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit. 
Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice 
Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance 
Of our past services. 

ZULIMEZ. 

And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours, 
You let a murderer hold ? 

alvar. 

O faithful Zulimez! 
That my return involved Ordonio's death, 
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang. 
Yet bearable : — but when I see my father 
Strewing his scant gray hairs, e'en on the ground. 
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa — 
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants, 
His infants — poor Teresa! — all would perish. 
All perish — all ! and I (nay bear with me) 
Could not survive the complicated ruin ! 

ZULIMEZ (much affected). 
Nay now ! I have distress'd you — you well know, 
I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome ! 
You are a painter,* one of many fancies ! 
You can call up past deeds, and make them live 
On the blank canvas ! and each little herb, 
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest, 
You have learnt to name 

Hark! heard you not some footsteps? 



Vide Appendix, Note 1. 



ALVAR. 

What if it were my brother coming onwards ? 
I sent a most mysterious message to him. 

Enter Ordonio. 
ALVAR (starting) 
It is he ! 

ORDONIO (to liimself, as he enters). 
If I distinguish'd right her gait and stature. 
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife. 
That pass'd me as I enter'd. A lit taper. 
In the night air, doth not more naturally 
Attract the night-flies round it, than a conjuror 
Draws round him the whole female neighborhood. 

[Addressing Alvar. 
You know my name, I guess, if not my person. 
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez. 

alvar (with deep emotion). 
The Son of Valdez ! 

[Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks 
attentively at the plants. 

ZULIMEZ (to Alvar). 

Whjs what ails you now ? 
How your hand trembles! Alvar, speak! what wish 
you? 

alvar. 
To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness ! 

ORDONIO (returning, and aloud). 
Pluck'd in the moonlight from a ruin'd abbey — 
Those only, which the pale rays visited ! 
O the unintelligible power of weeds, 
When a few odd prayers have beenmutter'd o'er them; 
Then they work miracles ! I warrant you. 
There 's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks 
Some serviceable imp. 

There 's one of you 
Hath sent me a strange message. 

ALVAR. 

I am he. 

ORDONIO. 

With you, then, I am to speak : 

[Haughtily waving Ids hand to Zulimez. 
And, mark you, alone. [Exit Zulimez. 

" He that can bring the dead to life again ! " — 
Such was your message. Sir ! You are no dullard, 
But one that strips the outward rind of things ! 

ALVAR. 

'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds. 
That are all dust and rottenness within. 
Wouldst thou I should strip such? 

ORDONIO. 

Thou quibbling fool, 
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journey'd 

hither. 
To sport with thee ? 

ALVAR. 

O no, my Lord ! to sport 
Best suits the gaiety of innocence. 

ORDONIO (aside). 
O what a thing is man ! the wisest heart 
A Fool ! a Fool that laughs at its own folly. 
Yet still a fool ! [Looks round the Cottage. 

You are poor ! 



What follows thence ? 



ORDONIO. 

That you would fain be richer. 
91 



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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Inquisition, too — You comprehend me ? 

You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power, 

Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty ; 

And for the boon I ask of you, but this. 

That you should serve me — once — for a few hours. 

ALVAR {solemnly). 
Thou art the son of Valdez ! would to Heaven 
That r could truly and for ever serve thee. 

ORDONIO. 

The slave begins to soften. {Aside. 

You are my friend, 
" He that can bring the dead to life again." 
Nay, no defence to me ! The holy brethren 
Believe these calumnies — I know thee better. 

CThen with great bitterness). 
Thou art a man, and as a man 1 11 trust thee ! 



ALVAR 

Alas ! this hollow mirth — Declare your business. 

ORDONIO. 

I love a lady, and she would love me. 
But for an idle and fantastic scruple. 
Have you no servants here, no listeners ? 

[Ordonio steps to the door. 

ALVAR. 

What, faithless too ? False to his angel wife ? 
To such a wife ? Well mightst thou look so wan, 
Ill-starr'd Teresa ! — Wretch ! my softer soul 
Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience ! 

ORDONIO. 

In truth this lady loved another man, 
But he has perish'd. 

ALVAR. 

What ! you kill'd him ! hey ? 

ORDONIO. 

I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it! 
Insolent slave ! how daredst thou — 

[Turns abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself. 

Why! what's this? 

'Twas idiocy! I'll tie myself to an aspen, 

And wear a fool's cap — 

ALVAR {watching his agitation). 
Fare thee well — 
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish. 

[Alvar is retiring. 

ORDONIO [having recovered himself). 
Ho ! [Calling to Alvar. 

ALVAR. 

Be brief: what wash you? 

ORDONIO. 

You are deep at bartering— You charge yourself 
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely. 

ALVAR. 

I listen to you. 

ORDONIO. 

In a sudden tempest. 
Did Alvar perish — ^he, I mean — the lover — 
The felbw, 

ALVAR. 

Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart 
To call him villain!— Why stand'st thou aghast! 
Men think it natural to hate their rivals. 

ORDONIO (hesitating). 
Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me. 

ALVAR {with eager vehemence). 
Are you not wedded then ? Merciful Heaven ! 
Not wedded to Teresa ? 



ORDONIO. 

Why, what ails thee ? 
What, art thou mad ? why look'st thou upward so ? 
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air ? 

ALVAR {recollecting himself). 
Proceed, I shall be silent. 
[Alvar sits, and leaning on the table, hides his face. 

ORDONIO. 

To Teresa? 
Politic wizard ! ere you sent that message. 
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient 
In all my fortunes. Hah ! you prophesied 
A golden crop ! Well, you have not mistaken— 
Be faithful to me, and I '11 pay thee nobly. 

ALVAR {lifting up his head). 
Well! and this lady? 

ORDONIO. 

If we could make her certain of his death, 
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her, 
She tied a little portrait round his neck, 
Entreating him to wear it. 

ALVAR {sighing). 

Yes ! he did so ! 

ORDONIO. 

Why no ! he was afraid of accidents. 
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the hke. 
In secrecy he gave it me to keep, 
Till his return. 

ALVAR. 

What ! he was your friend, then ! 

ORDONIO {wounded and embarrassed). 
1 was his friend. — 

Now that he gave it me 
This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard^ 
Can call the dead man up — he will not come — 
He is in heaven then — there you have no influence ; 
Still there are tokens — and your imps may bring you 
Something he wore about him when he died. 
And when the smoke of the incense on the altar 
Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture. 
What say you now ? 

ALVAR {after a pause). 

Ordonio, I will do it. 

ORDONIO. 

We '11 hazard no delay. Be it to-night. 
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez. 
I will prepare him. Music too, and incense 
(For I have arranged it — Music, Altar, Incense), 
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture, 
And here, what you will value more, a purse. 
Come early for your magic ceremonies. 

ALVAR. 

I will not fail to meet you. 

ORDONIO. 

Till next we meet, farewell ! 

[Exit Ordonio. 

ALVAR {alone, indignantly flings the purse away, and 
gazes passionately at the portrait). 

And I did curse thee ? 
At midnight ? on my knees ? and I believed 
Thee perjured, thee a traitress ! 7'Aee dishonor'd ? 
O blind and credulous fool ! O guilt of folly ! 
Should not thy inarticulate Fondnesses, 
Thy Infant Loves — should not thy Maiden Vows 
Have come upon my heart ? And this sweet Image, 
Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment, 
92 



REMORSE. 



83 



And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble — 
Ah, coward dupe ! to yield it to the miscreant. 
Who spake pollution of thee ! barter for Life 
This farewell Pledge, which with impassion'd Vow 
I had sworn that I would grasp — ev'n in my death- 
pang ! 

I am imworthy of thy love, Teresa, 

Of that unearthly smile upon those lips. 

Which ever smiled on me ! Yet do not scorn me — 

I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's. 



Dear Portrait ! rescued from a traitor's 

I will not now profane thee, holy Image, 

To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find 

A picture, which will wake the hell within him. 

And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall of Armory, vyith an Altar at the lack of the 
Stage. Soft Music from an instrument of Glass 
or Steel. 

Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, 
are discovered. 

ORDONIO. 

This was too melancholy, father. 
valdez. 



On such employment ! With far other thoughts 
I left you. 

ORDONio {aside). 
Ha ! he has been tampering with her ? 

ALVAR. 

high-soul'd maiden ! and more dear to me 
Than suits the Stranger's name ! — 

I swear to thee 

1 will uncover all concealed guilt. 

Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the altar. 

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the 



Nay, 
My Alvar loved sad music from a child. 
Once he was lost ; and after weary search 
We found him in an open place in the wood, 
To which spot he had follow'd a blind boy. 
Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore 
Some strangely moving notes : and these, he said. 
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw 
Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank : 
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep. 
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me 
To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe 
A silver toy his grandam had late given him. 
Methinks I see him now as he then look'd — 
Even so ! — He had outgrown his infant dress, 
Yet still he wore it. 

ALVAR. 

My tears must not flow ! 
I must not clasp his knees, and cry. My father ! 
Enter Teresa, and Attendants. 

TERESA. 

Lord Valdez, you have ask'd my presence here, 
And I submit ; but (Heaven bear witness for me) 
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery. 

ORDONIO. 

Believe you then no preternatural influence ? 
Believe you not that spirits throng around us ? 

TERESA. 

Say rather that I have imagined it 
A possible thing : and it has soothed my soul 
As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me 
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope 
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. 
{To Alvar. Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you 
here, 



ALVAR. 

With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm 
I call up the Departed ! 

Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell :. 
So may the Gates of Paradise, unbarr'd, 
Cease thy swift toils ! since haply thou art one 
Of that innumerable company 
Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion. 
With noise too vast and constant to be heard : 
Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless 
And rapid travellers ! What ear unstunn'd, 
What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against 
The rushing of your congregated wings ? 

[Music. 
Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
[Music expressive of the movements and images 

that follow. 
Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands. 
That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters, 
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
To the parch'd caravan that roams by night ! 
And ye build upon the becalmed waves 
That whirling pillar, which from Earth to Heaven 
Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 
The ice mount ! and with fragments many and huge 
Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulfs 
Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard sldff ! 
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye 

dance, 
Till from the blue swoln Corse the Soul toils out, 
And joins your mighty Army. 

[Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three 

words, "Hear, sweet Spirit." 

Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker Charm ! 
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
Of a half dead, yet still undying Hope, 
Pass visible before our mortal sense ! 
So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine. 
Her knells and masses that redeem the Dead ! 



Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Instru- 
ment as before. 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep long-lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore. 
In a Chapel on the shore. 
Shall the Chanters sad and saintly. 
Yellow tapers burning faintly, 
93 



84 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Doleful Masses chant for thee, 
Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the yellow moonlight sea : 

The boatmen rest their oars and say, 

Miserere Domine ! [A long pause. 

ORDONIO. 

The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! 

My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, 

Bui-st on our sight, a passing visitant ! 

Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, 

O 't were a joy to me ! 

ALVAR. 

A joy to thee ! 
What if thou heard'st him now ? What if his spirit 
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee 
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard ? 
What if (his stedfast Eye still beaming Pity 
And Brother's love) he turn'd his head aside, 
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look 
Hurl thee beyond all power of Penitence ? 

VALDEZ. 

These are unholy fancies ! 



He is in Heaven ! 



ruggling with his feelings). 
Yes, my father, 



ALVAR (^Still to OrDONIO). 

But what if he had a brother, 
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour 
The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face, 
More than the death-pang ? 

VALDKZ. 

Idly prating man ! 
Thou hast guess'd ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him ! 
He is most virtuous. 

ALVAR {still to OrDONIO). 

What, if his very virtues 
Had pamper'd his swoln heart and made him proud ? 
And what if Pride had duped him into guilt ? 
Yet still he stalk'd a self created God, 
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning ; 
And one that at his Mother's looking-glass 
Would force his features to a frowning sternness ? 
Young Lord ! I tell thee, that there are such Beings — 
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd. 
To see these most proud men, that lothe mankind, 
At every stir and buzz of coward conscience, 
Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites ! 
Away, away ! Now let me hear more music. 

[Music again. 

TERESA. 

'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures! 

But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer 

Be present at these lawless mysteries, 

This dark provoking of the Hidden Powers ! 

Already I affront — if not high Heaven — 

Yet Alvar's Memory ! — Hark ! I make appeal 

Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence 

To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek 

That voice which whispers, when the still heart 

listens, 
€omfort and faithful Hope ! Let us retire. 
ALVAR {to Teresa anxiously). 
O full of faith and guileless love, thy Spirit 



Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt 
Surprise the guilty : thou art innocent ! 

[Exeunt Teresa and Attendant. 
{Music as before). 
The spell is mutter'd — Come, thou wandering Shape, 
Who own'st no Master in a human eye, 
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul ; 
If he be dead, O come ! and bring with thee 
That which he grasp'd in death ! but if he live, 
Some token of his obscure perilous life. 

[The whole Music clashes into a Chorus. 

CHORUS. 

Wandering Demons, hear the spell! 
Lest a blacker charm compel — 

[The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and 
an illuminated picture of Alvar's assassina- 
tion is discovered, and having remained a 
few seconds is then hidden by ascending 
flames. 
ORDONIO {starting in great agitation). 
Duped ! duped ! duped ! — the traitor Isidore ! 

[At this instant the doors are forced open, MoN- 
viEDRO and the Familiars of the Inquisition, 
Servants etc. enter and fill the stage. 

MONVIEDRO. 

First seize the sorcerer ! suffer him not to speak ! 

The holy judges of the Inquisition 

Shall hear his first words. — Look you pale, Lord 

Valdez? 
Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery. 
There is a dungeon underneath this castle, 
And as you hope for mild interpretation, 
Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it. 
ORDONIO {recovering himself as from stupor, to 
Servants.) 
Why haste you not ? Off with him to the dungeon ! 
[All rush out in tumidt. 



SCENE II. 

Interior of a Chapel, with painted Windows. 

Enter Teresa. 

TERESA. 

When first I enter'd this pure spot, forebodings 
Press'd heavy on my heart : but as I knelt, 
Such calm unwonted bliss possess'd my spirit, 
A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by, 
Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear 
As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm 
Beats on the roof of some fair banquet-room, 

While sweetest melodies are warbling 

Enter Valdez. 

VALDEZ. 

Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness, 
And extricate us from this net of peril ! 

TERESA. 

Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril ? 

VALDEZ. 

O best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted ! 
This was no feat of mortal agency ! 
That picture — Oh, that picture tells me all ! 
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanish'd. 
Self kindled, self consumed : bright as thy Life, 
Sudden and unexpected as thy Fate, 
Alvar ! My son ! My son ! — ^The Inquisitor — 

94 



REMORSE. 



85 



TERESA. 

Torture me not ! But Alvar — Oh of Alvar ? 

VALDEZ. 

How often would he plead for these Morescoes ! 
The brood accurst ! remorseless, coward murderers ! 
TERESA {wildly). 

So ? so ? — I comprehend you — He is 

VALDEZ [^wiih averted countenance). 

He is no more ! 

TERESA. 

O sorrow ! that a father's voice should say this, 
A father's heart believe it ! 

VALDEZ. 

A worse sorrow 
Are Fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing ! 

TERESA. 

These rays that slant in through those gorgeous 

windows, 
From yon bright orb — though color'd as they pass, 
Are they not Light ? — Even so that voice, Lord 

Valdez ! 
Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied 
By many a fancy, many a wishful hope. 
Speaks yet the truth : and Alvar lives for me ! 

VALDEZ. 

Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other, 
He has lived for thee — a spirit for thy spirit ! 
My child, we must not give religious faith 
To every voice which makes the heart a listener 
To its own wish. 

TERESA. 

I breathed to the Unerring 
Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd, 
Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune 
Save with the lying Spirit, claim belief? 

VALDEZ. 

O not to-day, not now for the first time 
Was Alvar lost to thee — 

[Turning off, aloud, hut yet as to himself. 
Accurst assassins ! 
Disarm'd, o'erpower'd, despairing of defence. 
At his bared breast he seem'd to grasp some relict 

More dear than was his life 

TERESA {vyith a faint shriek). 

O Heavens ! my portrait ! 
And he did grasp it in his death-pang ! 

Off, false Demon, 
That beat'st thy black wings close above my head ! 
[Ordonio enters with the keys of the dungeon 
in his hand. 
Hush ! who comes here ? The wizard Moor's em- 
ployer ! 
Moors were his murderers, you say ? Saints shield us 

From wicked thoughts 

[Valdez moves towards the back of the stage to 
meet Ordonio, and during the concluding 
lines of Teresa's speech appears as eagerly 
conversing with him. 

Is Alvar dead ? what then ? 
The nuptial rites and funeral shall be one ! 
Here 's no abiding-place for thee, Teresa. — 
Away! they see me not — TJiou seest me, Alvar! 
To thee I bend my course. — But first one question, 
One question to Ordonio. — My limbs tremble — 
There I may sit unmark'd — a moment will restore me. 
[Retires out of sight. 
ORDONIO (as he advances with Valdez). 
These are the dungeon keys. Monviedro knew not 
That I too had received the wizard message, 



" He that can bring the dead to life again." 
But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme 
To work a full conviction on the culprit. 
And he intrusts him wholly to my keeping. 

VALDEZ. 

'T is well, my son ! But have you yet discover'd 
Where is Teresa ? what those speeches meant — 
Pride, and Hypocrisy, and Guilt, and Cunning ? 
Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you. 
And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trem- 
bled— 
Why — why, what ails you now ? — 
ORDONIO (confused). 

Me ? what ails me ? 
A pricking of the blood — It might have happen'd 
At any other time. — Why scan you me ? 

valdez 
His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers 
Bore reference to the assassins 

ORDONIO. 

Duped ! duped ! duped 
The traitor, Isidore ! [A pause ; then wildly. 

I tell thee, my dear father ! 
I am most glad of this. 

VALDEZ (confused). 

True — Sorcery 
Merits its doom ; and this perchance may guide us 
To the discovery of the murderers. 
I have their statures and their several faces 
So present to me, that but once to meet them 
Would be to recognize. 

ORDONIO. 

Yes ! yes ! we recognize them 
I was benumb'd, and stagger'd up and down 
Through darkness without light — dark — dark — dark! 
My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled, 
As had a snake coil'd round them ! — Now 't is sun- 
shine. 
And the blood dances freely through its channels ! 

[Turns off abruptly ; then to himself 
This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore ! 

[Then mimicking Isidore's manner and voice. 
" A common trick of gratitude, my Lord ! " 
Oh Gratitude ! a dagger would dissect 
His "own full heart" — 'twere good to see its color, 

VALDEZ. 

These magic sights ! O that I ne'er had yielded, 
To your entreaties ! Neither had I yielded. 
But that in spite of your own seeming faith 
I held it for some innocent stratagem. 
Which Love had prompted, to remove the doubts 
Of wild Teresa — by fancies quelling fancies ! 

ORDONIO (in a slow voice, as reasoning to himself.) 
Love ! Love ! and then we hate ! and what ? and 

wherefore ? 
Hatred and Love ! Fancies opposed by fancies ! 
What, if one reptile sting another reptile ! 
Where is the crime ? The goodly face of Nature 
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it. 
Are we not all predestined Transiency, 
And cold Dishonor ? Grant it, that this hand 
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms 
Somewhat too early — Where 's the crime of this ? 
That this must needs bring on the idiocy 
Of raoist-eyed Penitence — 't is like a dream ! 

VALDEZ. 

Wild talk, my son ' But thy excess of feeling 

[Averting himself 
95 



86 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Almost, I fear, it hath unhinged his brain. 

ORDONio {now in soliloquy, and now addressing 
his father : and just after the speech has 
commenced, Teresa reappears and advances 
slowly). 
Say, 1 had laid a body in the sun ! 
Well ! in a month there swarm forth from the corse 
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings 
In place of that one man. — Say, I had kilVd him ! 

[Teresa starts, and stops, listening. 
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all 
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy 
As that one life, which being push'd aside, 
Made room for these urmum.ber'd 

VALDEZ. 

O mere madness ! 
[Teresa moves hastily forwards, and places herself 
directly before Ordonio. 
ORDONIO {checking the feeling of surprise, and 
forcing his tones into an expression of 
playful courtesy). 
Teresa ? or the Phantom of Teresa ? 

TERESA. 

Alas ! the Phantom only, if in truth 

The substance of her Being, her Life's life, 

Have ta'en its flight through Alvar's death-wound — 

(A pause.) Where — 

(Even coward Murder grants the dead a grave) 
O tell me, Valdez ! — answer me, Ordonio ! 
Where lies the corse of my betrothed husband ? 

ORDONIO. 

There, where Ordonio likewise would fain lie ! 
In the sleep-compelling earth, in unpierced dark- 
ness ! 
For while we live — 
An inward day that never, never sets, 
Glares round the soul, and mocks the closing eye- 
lids ! 
Over his rocky grave the Fir-grove sighs 
A lulling ceaseless dirge ! 'T is well with him. 

[Strides off in agitation towards the altar, but 
returns as Valdez is speaking. 
TERESA {recoiling with the expression appropriate to 

the passion). 
The rock ! the fir-grove ! [To Valdez. 

Didst thou hear him say it ? 
Hush ! I will ask him ! 

valdez. 
Urge him not — not now ! 
This we beheld. Nor He nor I know more, 
Than what the magic imagery reveal'd. 

The assassin, who press'd foremost of the three 

ordonio. 
A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain, 
Whom I will strangle ! 

VALDEZ {looking with anxious disquiet at his Son, yet 
attempting to proceed with his description). 

While his two companions 

ORDONIO. 

Dead ! dead already ! what care we for the dead ? 

VALDEZ {to Teresa). 
Pity him ! soothe him ! disenchant his spirit ! 
These supernatural shows, this strange disclosure, 
And this too fond affection, which still broods 
O'er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it — 
These, struggling with his hopeless love for you, 
Distemper him, and give reality 
To the creatures of his fancy — 



ORDONIO. 

Is it so ? 
Yes ! yes ! even like a child, that, too abruptly 
Roused by a glare of light from deepest sleep, 
Starts up bewilder'd and talks idly. 

{Then mysteriously.) Father! 

What if the Moors that made my brother's grave, 
Even now were digging ours ? What if the bolt. 
Though aim'd, I doubt not, at the son of Valdez, 
Yet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar ? 



Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors, — say rather, 
He was their advocate ; but you had march'd 
With fire and desolation through their villages. — 
Yet he by chance was captured. 

ORDONIO. 

Unknown, perhaps. 
Captured, yet, as the son of Valdez, murder'd. 
Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle Lady ? 



What seek you now ? 



To guide me- 



TERESA. 

A better, surer light 



Both VALDEZ and ordonio. 
Whither ? 

TERESA. 

To the only place 
Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart 
These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me ! 
Detain me not ! a dim Power drives me hence. 
And that will be my guide. 

VALDEZ. 

To find a lover ! 
Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty ? 

folly and shame ! Tempt not my rage, Teresa i 

TERESA. 

Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage. 

And am I hastening to the arms O Heaven! 

1 haste but to the grave of my beloved ! 

[Exit, Valdez following after h&r. 

ORDONIO. 

This, then, is my reward ! and I must love her? 
Scorn'd ! shudder'd at ! yet love her still ? yes ! 

yes ! 
By the deep feelings of Revenge and Hate 
I will still love her — woo her — win her too ! 
(A pause) Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait 
Found on the wizard — he, belike, self-poison'd 
To escape the crueller flames My soul shouts 

triumph ! 
The mine is undermined ! Blood ! Blood I Blood ! 
They thirst for thy blood ! thy blood, Ordonio ! 

[A pause. 
The hunt is up ! and in the midnight wood. 
With lights to dazzle and wdth nets they seek 
A timid prey : and lo ! the tiger's eye 
Glares in the red flame of his hunter's torch ! 
To Isidore I will dispatch a message. 
And lure him to the cavern! ay, that cavern! 
He cannot fail to find it. Thither I '11 lure him. 
Whence he shall never, never more return ! 

[Looks through the side window. 
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea, 
And now 't is gone ! All shall be done to-night. 

[ExiU 
96 



REMORSE. 



87 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight is 
seen on one side at the further end of it ; supposed 
to be cast on it from a crevice in a part of the 
cavern out of sight. Isidore alone, an extinguished 
torch in his hand. 

ISIDORE. 

Faith 'twas a moving letter — very moving! 
' His life in danger, no place safe but this ! 
'Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude." 
And yet — but no! there can't be such a villain. 
It cannot be ! 

Thanks to that little crevice, 
Which lets the moonlight in ! I '11 go and sit by it. 
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard. 
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep- 
Any thing but this crash of water-drops ! 
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence 
With puny thwartings and mock opposition ! 
So beats the death-watch to a dead man's ear. 

[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of 

moonlight : returns after a minute's elapse, 

in an ecstasy of fear. 
A hellish pit ! The very same I dreamt of! 
I was just in — and those damn'd fingers of ice 
Which clutch'd my hair up ! Ha ! — what's that — it 

moved. 

[Isidore stands staring at another recess in 
the cavern. In the mean time Ordonio en- 
ters with a torch, and halloos to Isidore. 



I swear that I saw something moving there ! 
The moonshine came and went like a flash of light- 
ning 

I swear, I saw it move. 

ordonio {goes into the recess, then returns, arid with 
great scorn). 

A jutting clay stone 
Props on the long lank weed, that grows beneath : 
And the weed nods and drips. 

ISIDORE {forcing a laugh faintly). 

A jest to laugh at ! 
It was not that which scared me, good my Lord. 

ORDONIO. 

What scared you, then ? 

ISIDORE. 

You see that little rift ? 
But first permit me ! 
{Lights his torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it. 
(A lighted torch in the hand, 
Is no unpleasant object here — one's breath 
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colors 
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.) 
You see that crevice there ? 
My torch extinguish 'd by these water drops, 
And marking that the moonlight came from thence, 
I stept in to it, meaning to sit there ; 
But scarcely had I measured twenty paces — 
My body bending forward, yea, overbalanced 
Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink 
Of a huge chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine 
Filling the Void, so counterfeited Substance, 
N 



That my foot hung aslant adown the edge. 
Was it my own fear ? 

Fear too hath its instincts ! 
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told of, 
And yet are Beings that live, yet not for the eye) 
An arm of frost above and from behind me 
Pluck'd up and snatch'd me backward. Merciful 

Heaven ! 
You smile ! alas, even smiles look ghastly here ! 
My Lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it. 

ORDONIO. 

It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you. 

ISIDORE. 

If every atom of a dead man's flesh 
Should creep, each one with a particular life. 
Yet all as cold as ever — 'twas just so ! 
Or had it drizzled needle points of frost 
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald — 
ORDONIO {interrupting him). 

Why, Isidore, 
I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled, 
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment — 
But such a panic — 

ISIDORE. 

When a boy, my Lord ! 
I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm, 
Push'd in huge stones, and heard them strike and 

rattle 
Against its horrid sides: then hung my head 
Low down, and listen'd till the heavy fragments 
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well. 
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never 
A living thing came near — unless, perchance, 
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould 
Close at its edge. 

ORDONIO. 

Art thou more coward now ? 

ISIDORE. 

Call him, that fears his fellow-man, a coward ! 
I fear not man — but this inhuman cavern, 
It were too bad a prison-house for goblins. 
Beside (you'll smile, my Lord), but true it is. 
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted 
By what had pass'd between us in the morning. 

sleep of horrors ! Now run down and stared at 
By Forms so hideous that they mock remembrance— 
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing, 

But only being afraid — stifled with Fear ! 
While every goodly or familiar form- 
Had a strange power of breathing terror round me ! 

1 saw you in a thousand fearful shapes ; 
And, I entreat your lordship to believe me, 
In my last dream 

ORDONIO. 

Well? 

ISIDORE. 

I was in the act 
Of faUing dovm that chasm, when Alhadra 
Waked me : she heard my heart beat. 

ORDONIO. 

Strange enough! 
Had you been here before ? 

ISIDORE. 

Never, my Lord ! 
But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly. 
Than in my dream I saw — that very chasm. 
ORDONIO {stands lost in thought, then after a pause.) 
I know not why it should be ! yet it is — 

97 



88 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



What is, my Lord ? 



ORDONIO. 

Abhorrent from our nature, 



To kill a man. — 



ISIDORE. 

Except in self-defence. 

ORDONIO. 

Why, that 's my case ; and yet the soul recoils from it — 
'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps. 
Have sterner feelings ? 

ISIDORE. 

Something troubles you. 
How shall I serve you ? By the life you gave me. 
By all that makes that life of value to me, 
My wife, my babes, my honor, I swear to you, 
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing. 
If it be innocent ! But this, my Lord, 
Is not a place where you could perpetrate, 
No, nor propose, a wicked thing. The darkness, 
When ten strides off, we know 'tis cheerful moonlight, 
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart. 
It must be innocent. 
[Ordonio darkly, and in the feeling of self-justifica- 
tion, tells what he conceives of his own character and 
actions, speaking of himself in the third person. 

ORDONIO. 

Thyself be judge. 
One of our family knew this place well. 

ISIDORE. 

Who? when? my Lord? 

ORDONIO. 

What boots it, who or when ? 

Hang up thy torch — I '11 tell his tale to thee. 

[They hang up their torches on some ridge in 
the cavern. 
He was a man different from other men. 
And he despised them, yet revered himself. 

ISIDORE {aside). 
He ? He despised ? Thou 'rt speaking of thyself! 
I am on my guard, however : no surprise. 

[Then to ORDomo. 
What ! he was mad ? 

ORDONIO. 

All men seem'd mad to him ! 
Nature had made him for some other planet, 
And press'd his soul into a human shape 
By accident or malice. In this world 
He found no fit companion. 



ISIDORE. 



Of himself he speaks. 



[Aside. 



Alas! poor wretch! 
Mad men are mostly proud. 

ORDONIO. 

He walk'd alone, 
And phantom thoughts unsought-for troubled him. 
Something within would still be shadowing out 
All possibilities ; and Mvith these shadows 
His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happen'd, 
A fancy cross'd him wilder than the rest : 
To this in moody murmur and low voice 
He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep : 
The man who heard him. — 

Why didst thou look round ? 



ISIDORE. 

I have a prattler three years old, my Lord ! 

In truth he is my darling. As I went 

From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep — 

But I am tallung idly — pray proceed ! 

And what did this man ? 

ORDONIO. 

With his human hand 
He gave a substance and reality 
To that vdld fancy of a possible thing. — 
Well it was done ! [Tlien very wildly 

Why babblest thou of guilt ? 
The deed was done, and it pass'd fairly off 
And he whose tale I tell thee — dost thou listen ? 

ISIDORE. 

I would, my Lord, you were by my fire-side, 
I 'd listen to you wdth an eager eye. 
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight ; 
But I do listen — pray proceed, my Lord. 

ORDONIO. 

Where was I ? 

ISIDORE. 

He of whom you tell the tale — 

ORDONIO. 

Surveying all things with a quiet scorn. 
Tamed himself down to living purposes, 
The occupations and the semblances 
Of ordinary men — and such he seem'd ! 
But that same over-ready agent — ^he — 

ISIDORE. 

Ah! what of him, my Lord ? 

ORDONIO. 

He provfed a traitor, 
Betray'd the mjrstery to a brother traitor. 
And they between them hatch'd a damned plot 
To hunt him down to infamy and death. 
What did the Valdez ? I am proud of the name. 
Since he dared do it. — 

[Ordonio grasps his sword, and turns off from 
Isidore ; then after a pause returns. 
Our links burn dimly. 

ISIDORE. 

A dark tale darkly finish'd ! Nay, my Lord ! 
Tell what he did. 

ORDONIO. 

That which his wisdom prompted — 

He made that Traitor meet him in this cavern, 

And here he kill'd the Traitor. 

ISIDORE. 

No ! the fool ! 
He had not vdt enough to be a traitor. 
Poor thick-eyed beetle ! not to have foreseen 
That he who gull'd thee with a whiraper'd lie 
To murder his own brother, would not scruple 
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous, 
And he could steal upon thee in the dark ! 

ORDONIO. 

Thou wouldst not then have come, if 

ISIDORE. 

Oh yes, my Lord ! 

I would have met him arm'd, and scared the coward. 
[Isidore throws off his robe ; shows himself armed, 
and draws his sword. 

ORDONIO. 

Now this is excellent, and warms the blood ! 
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back 

98 



REMORSE. 



89 



With weak and womanish scruples. Now my Ven- 
geance 
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien, 
And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of— 
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave ! and count it 
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter. 

ISIDORE. 

And all my little ones fatherless — 

Die thou first 
{They fight ; Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in dis- 
arming him throws his sword up that recess oppo- 
site to which they were standing. Isidore hurries 
. into the recess with his torch, ORDomo follows him ; 
a loud cry of " Traitor ! Monster ! " is heard 
from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns 
alone. 

ordonio. 
I have hurl'd him down the chasm ! Treason for trea- 
son. 
He dreamt of it : henceforward let him sleep 
A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him. 
His dream too is made out — Now for his friend. 

[Exit Ordonio. 



SCENE II.= 



VALDEZ. 

Hush, thoughtless woman ! 

TERESA. 

Nay, it wakes within me 
More than a woman's spirit. 

VALDEZ. 

No more of this — 
What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us ! 
I dare not listen to you. 

TERESA 

My honor'd Lord, 
These were my Alvar's lessons ; and whene'er 
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them, 
As if to give a voice to the mute image. 

VALDEZ. 

We have mourn'd for Alvar. 



The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle, 
with the Iron Gate of a Dungeon visible. 

TERESA. 

Heart-chilling Superstition ! thou canst glaze 
Even Pity's eye with her own frozen tear. 
In vain I urge the tortures that await him ; 
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood. 
My second mother, shuts her heart against me ! 
Well, I have won from her what most imports 
The present need, this secret of the dungeon. 
Known only to herself — A Moor ! a Sorcerer ! 
No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted 
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True, 
I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborn'd him 
To act some part in some unholy fraud ; 
As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose 
He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him, 
And that Ordonio meditates revenge ! 
But my resolve is fix'd ! myself will rescue him, 
And learn if haply he know aught of Alvar. 

Enter Valdez. 

VALDEZ. 

Still sad ? — and gazing at the massive door 
Of that fell Dungeon which thou ne'er hadst sight of, 
Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shaped it. 
When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats. 
Now by my faith. Girl ! this same wizard haunts thee ! 
A stately man, and eloquent and tender — 

[With a sneer. 
Who then need wonder if a lady sighs 
Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans — 

TERESA {with solemn indignation). 
The horror of their ghastly punishments 
Doth SO o'ertop the height of all compassion. 
That I should feel too little for mine enemy. 
If it were possible I could feel more, 
Even though the dearest inmates of our household 
Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are — 



* Vide Appendix, Note 2. 



Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt. 
Have I no other son ? 

TERESA. 

Speak not of him ! 
That low imposture ! That mysterious picture ! 
If this be madness, must I wed a madman ? 
And if not madness, there is mystery. 
And guilt doth lurk behind it. 

VALDEZ. 

Is this well ? 

TERESA. 

Yes, it is truth : saw you his countenance ? 
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear. 
Displaced each other with swift interchanges ? 

that I had indeed the sorcerer's power ! ■ 

1 would call up before thine eyes the image 
Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born ! 

His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead. 
His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips ! 
That spiritual and almost heavenly light 
In his commanding eye — his mien heroic. 
Virtue's own native heraldry ! to man 
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. 
Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread 
Wide round him ! and when oft with swelling tears, 
Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd 
The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots, 
Oh, what a grief was there — for joy to envy, 
Or gaze upon enamour'd ! 

O my father ! 
Recall that morning when we knelt together. 
And thou didst bless our loves ! O even now. 
Even now, my sire ! to thy mind's eye present him. 
As at that moment he rose up before thee. 
Stately, with beaming look ! Place, place beside him 
Ordonio's dark perturbed countenance ! 
Then bid me (Oh thou couldst not) bid me turn 
From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind ! 
To take in exchange that brooding man, who never 
Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl. 

VALDEZ. 

Ungrateful woman ! I have tried to stifle 
An old man's passion ! was it not enough 
That thou hadst made my son a restless man, 
Banish'd his health, and half unhinged his reason ; 
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion ? 
And toil to blast his honor ? I am old, 
A comfortless old man ! 

TERESA. 

O Grief! to hear 
[Hateful entreaties from a voice we love! 
99 



90 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter a Peasant and presents a letter to Valdez. 

VALDEZ {reading it). 

" He dares not venture hither!" Why what can this 

mean ? 
" Lest the FamiHars of the Inquisition, 
That watch around my gates, should intercept him ; 
But he conjures me, that without delay 
I hasten to him — for my own sake entreats me 
To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd — 
He will reveal a secret, the joy of which 
Will even outweigh the sorrow." — Why what can 

this be ? 
Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem, 
To have in me a hostage for his safety. 
Nay, that they dare not ? Ho ! collect my servants ! 
I will go thither — let them arm themselves. 

[Exit Valdez. 

TERESA {alone). 
The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd. 
Yet, anxious listener ! I have seem'd to hear 
A low dead thunder mutter through the night. 
As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep. 
O Alvar ! Alvar ! that they could return. 
Those blessed days that imitated heaven, 
When we two wont to walk at even-tide ; 
When we saw naught but beauty ; when we heard 
The voice of that Almighty One who loved us 
In every gale that breathed, and wave that mur- 
mur'd ! 

we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure 
Hath half assumed the countenance of grief. 

And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight 
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart. 

[A pause. 
And this majestic Moor, seems he not one 
Who oft and long communing with my Alvar 
Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence, 
And guides me to him with reflected light ? 
WTiat if in yon dark dungeon coward Treachery 
Be groping for him with envenom'd poniard — 
Hence, womanish fears, traitors to love and duty — 

1 '11 free him. [Exit Teresa 



SCENE III. 



The Mountains hy moonlight Alhadra alone in a 
Moorish dress. 

alhadra. 
Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem 
As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; 
The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, 
The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands. 
Lie in the silent moonshine : and the owl, 
(Strange ! very strange !) the screech-owl only wakes ! 
Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty ! 
Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song 
To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. 
Why such a thing am I ? — Where are these men ? 
I need the sympathy of human faces. 
To beat away this deep contempt for all things. 
Which quenches my revenge. Oh ! would to Alia, 
The raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed 
To bring me food ! or rather that my soul 
Could drink in Ufe from the universal air ! 
It were a lot divine in some small skiff 
Along some Ocean's boundless solitude, 



To float for ever with a careless course, 
And think myself the only being alive ! 

My children ! — Isidore's children ! — Son of Valdez, 
This hath new-strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant! 
To stupify a woman's heart with anguish, 
Till she forgot — even that she was a mother ! 
[She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after 
another, from different parts of the stage, a con- 
siderable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish gar- 
ments and Moorish armor. They form a circle at 
a distance round Alhadra, and remain silent till 
the second in command, Naomi, enters, distinguished 
hy his dress and armor, and by the silent obeisance 
paid to him on his entrance by the other Moors. 

NAOML 

Woman ! may Alia and the Prophet bless thee ! 
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief? 
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments ? 

Alhadra {raising her eyes, and looking round on the 

circle). 
Warriors of Mahomet ! faithful in the battle ! 
My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to work 
An honorable deed ? And would ye work it 
In the slave's garb ? Curse on those Christian robes ! 
They are spell-blasted : and whoever wears them, 
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away, 
And his bones soften. 

NAOMI. 

Where is Isidore ? 
alhadra {in a deep low voice). 
This night I went from forth my house, and left 
His children all asleep : and he was living ! 
And I return'd and found them still asleep. 
But he had perish'd 

all the MORESCOES. 

Perish'd ? 

ALHADRA. 

He had perish'd ! 
Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know 
That he is fatherless — a desolate orphan ! 
Why should we wake them ? can an infant's arm 
Revenge his murder ? 

ONE MORESCOE {io another). 

Did she say his murder ? 

NAOMI. 

Murder ? Not murder'd ? 

ALHADRA. 

Murder'd by a Christian ! 
[They all at once draw their sabres- 
ALHADRA {to Naomi, who advances from the circle). 
Brother of Zagri ! fling away thy sword ; 
This is thy chieftain's ! [He steps forward to take it. 

Dost thou dare receive it ? 
For I have sworn by Alia and the Prophet, 
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart 
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword 
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez ! 

[A pause. 
Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer ! 

NAOMI. 

He dies, by Alia. 
ALL (kneeling.) 

By Alia! 

ALHADRA. 

This night your chieftain arm'd himself, 
100 



REMORSE. 



91 



And hurried from me. But I follow'd him 
At distance, till I saw him enter — there ! 

NAOMI. 

The cavern? 

ALIIADRA. 

Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. 

After a while I saw the son of Valdez 

Rush by with flaring torch ; he likewise enter'd. 

There was another and a longer pause ; 

And once, methought I heard the clash of swords ! 

And soon the son of Valdez reappear'd : 

He flung his torch towards the moon in sport. 

And seem'd as he were mirthful ! I stood listening. 

Impatient for the footsteps of my husband ! 

NAOMI. 

Thou calledst him? 

ALHABRA. 

I crept into the cavern — 
"Fwas dark and very silent [Then wildly. 

What saidst thou ? 
No ! no ! I did not dare call, Isidore, 
Lest I should hear no answer ! A brief while, 
Belike, I lost all thought and memory 
1 Of that for which I came ! After that pause, 

Heaven ! I heard a groan, and follow'd it : 
And yet another groan, which guided me 
Into a strange recess — and there was light, 

\ A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ; 
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink : 

1 spake ; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan 
f Came from that chasm ! it was his last ! his death- 

I 



NAOMI. 

Comfort her, Alia. 

ALHADRA. 

I stood in unimaginable trance 
And agony that cannot be remember'd. 
Listening vdth horrid hope to hear a groan ! 
But I had heard his last : my husband's death-groan ! 

NAOMI. 

Haste ! let us onward. 

ALHADRA. 

I look'd far down the pit — 
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment : 
And it was stain'd with blood. Then first I shriek'd, 
My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fire, 
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof 
Tum'd into blood — I saw them turn to blood ! 
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm, 
When on the farther brink I saw his sword, 
And it said, Vengeance ! — Curses on my tongue ! 
The moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here, 
And he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore I 
Spirit of Isidore ! thy murderer lives ! 
Away! away! 

ALL. 

Away! away! 

{She rushes off, aUfollamng her. 



ACT V. 

SCENE L 

A Dungeon. 

ALVAR (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds. 

ALVAR. 

And this place my forefathers made for man ! 



This is the process of our love and wisdom 
To each poor brother who offends against us — 
Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty ? 
Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ! 
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up, 
By ignorance and parching poverty. 
His energies roll back upon his heart. 
And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison, 
They break out on him, like a lothesome plague- 
spot ! 
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks : 
And this is their best cure ! uncomforted 
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears. 
And savage faces, at the clanking hour. 
Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon 
By the lamp's dismal twilight I So he lies 
Circled with evil, till his very soul 
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd 
By sights of evermore deformity! 
With other ministrations thou, O Nature ! 
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child : 
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences. 
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets ; 
Thy melodies of words, and winds, and waters ! 
Till he relent, and can no more endure 
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
His angry spirit heal'd and harmonized 
By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 
I am chill and weary ! Yon rude bench of stone, 
In that dark angle, the sole resting-place ! 
But the self approving mind is its ovm light, 
And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart 
Where Love sits brooding, and an honest purpose. 

[Retires out of sight. 

Enter Teresa with a Taper. 

TERESA. 

It has chill'd my very life — my own voice scares me ! 

Yet when I hear it not, I seem to lose 

The substance of my being — my strongest grasp 

Sends inwards but weak witness that I am. 

I seek to cheat the echo. — How the half sounds 

Blend with this strangled light ! Is he not here — 

[Looking round. 
O for one human face here — but to see 
One human face here to sustain me. — Courage ! 
It is but my own fear ! The life within me, 
It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame, 
Beyond which I scarce dare look onward ! Oh ! 



If I faint ! If this inhuman den should be 
At once my death-bed and my burial vault ! 

[Faintly screams as Alvar emerges from the recess. 

ALVAR (rushes towards her, and catches her as she 
is falling). 

gracious Heaven ! it is, it is Teresa ! 

1 shall reveal myself? The sudden shock 
Of rapture will blow out this spark of life, 
And Joy complete what Terror has begun. 

ye impetuous beatings here, be still ! 
Teresa, best beloved ! pale, pale, and cold ! 
Her pulse doth flutter ! Teresa ! my Teresa ! 

TERESA (recovering, looks round wildly). 

1 heard a voice ; but often in my dreams 

I hear that voice ! and wake and try — and try— 
101 



92 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To hear it waking ! but I never could — 
And 'tis so now — even so! Well: he is dead — 
Murder'd, perhaps ! And I am faint, and feel 
As if it were no painful thing to die ! 

ALVAR {eagerly). 
Believe it not, sweet maid ! Believe it not, 
Beloved woman! 'Twas a low imposture, 
Framed by a guilty wretch. 

TERESA {retires from him, and feebly supports herself 
against a pillar of the dungeon). 

Ha ! Who art thou ? 
ALVAR {exceedingly affected). 
Suborn'd by his brother — 

TERESA. 

Didst thou murder him ? 
And dost thou now repent ? Poor troubled man, 
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee ! 

ALVAR. 

Ordonio — ^he — 

TERESA. 

If thou didst murder him— 
His spirit ever at the throne of God 
Asks mercy for thee : prays for mercy for thee. 
With tears in Heaven ! 

ALVAR. 

Alvar was not murder'd. 
Be calm ! Be calm, sweet maid ! 

TERESA {wildly). 
Nay, nay, but tell me ! 

[A pause ; then presses her forehead. 
O 'tis lost again! 
This dull confused pain — 

[A. pause, she gazes at Alvar. 
Mysterious man ! 
Methinks I can not fear thee : for thine eye 
Doth swim with love and pity — Well ! Ordonio — 
Oh my foreboding heart ! and he suborn'd thee. 
And thou didst spare his life ? Blessings shower on 

thee, 
As many as the drops twice counted o'er 
In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa I 

ALVAR. 

I can endure no more. The Moorish Sorcerer * 
Exists but in the stain upon his face. 
That picture — 

TERESA {advances towards him). 
Ha ! speak on ! 

ALVAR. 

Beloved Teresa I 
It told but half the truth. O let this portrait 
Tell all — that Alvar lives — that he is here ! 
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar. 

[Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her. 
TERESA {receiving the portrait). 
The same — it is the same. Ah ! who art thou ? 
Nay I Avill call thee, Alvar ! [She falls on his neck. 

ALVAR. 

O joy unutterable ! 
But hark ! a sound as of removing bars 
At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while 
Conceal thyself, my love ! It is Ordonio. 
For the honor of our race, for our dear father ; 
O for himself too (he is still my brother) 
Let me recall him to his nobler nature. 
That he may wake as from a dream of murder ! 
O let me reconcile hira to himself, 



Open the sacred source of penitent tears, 
And be once more his own beloved Alvar. 

TERESA. 

O my all virtuous love ! I fear to leave thee 
With that obdurate man. 

ALVAR. 

Thou dost not leave me ! 
But a brief while retire into the darkness : 

that my joy could spread its sunshine round theel- 

TERESA. 

The sound of thy voice shall be my music ! 

[Retiring, .she returns hastily and embraces Alvar. 
Alvar ! my Alvar ! am I sure I hold thee ? 
Is it no dream ? thee in my arms, ray Alvar! [Exit. 
[A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and 
Ordonio enters, with a goblet in his hand 

ORBONIO. 

Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood 

1 pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto, 

And as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought on thee. 

Thou hast conspired against my life and honor. 

Hast trick'd me foully ; yet I hate thee not. 

Why should I hate thee ? this same world of ours, 

'T is but a pool amid a storm of rain. 

And we the air-bladders that course up and down, 

And joust and tilt in merry tournament; 

And when one bubble runs foul of another, 

[ Waving his hand to Alvar. 
The weaker needs must break. 

ALVAR. 

I see thy heart ! 
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye 
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man ! 
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish. 
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt, 
And quell each human feeling. 

ORDONIO. 

Feeling! feeling! 
The death of a man — the breaking of a bubble — 
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes ; 
But faintness, cold and hunger — curses on me 
If willingly I e'er inflicted them ! 
Come, take the beverage ; this chill place demands it. 
[Ordonio proffers the goblet. 

ALVAR. 

Yon insect on the wall, 

Which moves this way and that its himdred limbs, 

Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft, 

It were an infinitely curious thing ! 

But it has life, Ordonio ! life, enjoyment ! 

And by the power of its miraculous will 

Wields all the complex movements of its frame 

Unerringly to pleasurable ends ! 

Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim, 

I would remove it with an anxious pity ! 

ORDONIO. 

What meanest thou ? 

ALVAR. 

There 's poison in the vdne. 

ORDONIO. 

Thou hast guess'd right ; there 's poison in the wine. 
There 's poison in 't — which of us two shall drink it ? 
For one of us must die ! 

ALVAR. . 

Whom dost thou think me ? 
102 



REMORSE. 



93 



ORDONIO. 

The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore. 

ALVAR. 

I know him not. 
And yet methinks I have heard the name but lately. 
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman ? 
Isidore ? Isidore ? 

ORDONIO. 

Good ! good ! that lie ! by heaven it has restored me. 
Now I am thy master ! Villain ! thou shalt drink it, 
Or die a bitterer death. 

ALVAR. 

What strange solution 
Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears, 
And drug them to unnatural sleep ? 
[Alvar takes the goblet, and throwing it to the ground 
with stern contempt. 

My master ! 

ORDONIO. 

Thou mountebank ! 

ALVAR. 

Mountebank and villain ! 
What then art thou ? For shame, put up thy sword ! 
What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm ? 
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest ! 
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage, 
And turn it to a motionless distraction ! 
Thou blind self- worshipper ! thy pride, thy cunning, 
Thy faith in universal villany. 
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn 
For all thy human brethren — out upon them ! 
What have they done for thee ? have they given thee 

peace ? 
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep ? or made 
The darkness pleasant when thou wakest at midnight? 
Art happy when alone ? Canst walk by thyself 
With even step and quiet cheerfulness ? 
Yet, yet thou mayest be saved 

ORDONIO (vacantly repeating the words). 

Saved? saved? 

ALVAR. 

One pang 
Could I call up one pang of true Remorse ! 

ORDONIO. 

He told me of the babes that prattled to him. 

His fatherless little ones ! Remorse ! Remorse ! 

Where gott'st thou that fool's word ? Curse on Remorse 

Can it give up the dead, or recompact 

A mangled body ? mangled — dash'd to atoms ! 

Not all the blessings of a host of angels 

Can blow away a desolate widow's curse ! 

And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement, 

It will not weigh against an orphan's tear ! 

ALVAR {almost overcome by his feelings). 
But Alvar — 

ORDONIO. 

Ha ! it chokes thee in the throat. 
Even thee ; and yet I pray thee speak it out ! 
Still Alvar! Alvar! — howl it in mine ear. 
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart. 
And shoot it hissing through my brain ! 

ALVAR. 

Alas ! 
That day when thou didst leap from off the rock 
Into the waves, and grasp'd thy sinking brother. 
And bore him to the strand ; then, son of Valdez, 



How sweet and musical the name of Alvar ! 
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee. 
And thou wert dear to him ; Heaven only knows 
How very dear thou wert ! Why didst thou hate him ? 

heaven ! how he would fall upon thy neck, 
And weep forgiveness ! 

ORDONIO. 

Spirit of the dead ! 
Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wild 
At its own dreams ! — off— ofi^ fantastic shadow ! 

ALVAR. 

1 fain would tell thee what I am ! but dare not I 

ORDONIO. 

Cheat ! villain ! traitor ! whatsoever thou be — 
I fear thee, man ! 

TERESA {rushing out and falling on Alvar's necJc). 
Ordonio! 'tis thy brother. 

[Ordonio with frantic wildness runs upon Alvar 
with his sword. Teresa flings herself on 
Ordonio and arrests his arm. 

Stop, madman, stop. 

ALVAR. 

Does then this thin disguise impenetrably 
Hide Alvar from thee ? Toil and painful wounds 
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons, 
Have marr'd perhaps all trait and lineament 
Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother, 
My anguish for thy guilt ! 

Ordonio — Brother ! 
Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. 
ordonio {drawing back and gazing at Alvar vdth a 
countenance of at once awe and terror). 

Touch me not ! 
Touch not pollution, Alvar ! I will die. 
[He attempts to fall on his sword: Alvar and Teresa 
prevent him. 

ALVAR. 

We will find means to save your honor. live, 
Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake ! 
Spare his gray hairs ! 

TERESA. 

And you may yet be happy. 
ordonio. 
O horror ! not a thousand years in heaven 
Could recompose this miserable heart. 
Or make it capable of one brief joy I 
Live ! Live ! Why yes ! 't were well to live with you : 
For is it fit a villain should be proud ? 
My brother ! I wdll kneel to you, my brother ! 

[Kneeling. 
Forgive me, Alvar ! — Curse me with forgiveness ! 

ALVAR. 

Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee : 
Now is the time for greatness ! Think that Heaven — 

TERESA. 

O mark his eye ! he hears not what you say. 

ORDONIO {pointing at the vacancy). 
Yes, mark his eye ! there 's fascination in it ! 
Thou said St thou didst not know him — That is he! 
He comes upon me ! 

ALVAR. 

Heal, O heal him, Heaven ! 

ORDONIO. 

Nearer and nearer! and I cannot stir! 
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me ? 
103 



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COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He would have died to save me, and I kill'd him — 
A husband and a father ! — 

TERESA. 

Some secret poison 
Drinks up his spirits ! 

ORDONio (Jiercely recollecting himself). 
Let the eternal Justice 
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world — 
I will not bear to live — to live — O agony ! 
And be myself alone my own sore torment ! 

[The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in 
rush Alhadra, and the band of Morescoes. 

ALHADRA. 

Seize first that man ! 

[Alvar presses onward to defend Ordonio. 

ORDONIO. 

Off) ruffians ! I have flung away my sword. 
Woman, my life is thine ! to thee I give it ! 
Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh, 
I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength 
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes. 



My husband — 



O horrible : 



alhadra. 

ORDONIO. 

Yes, I murder'd him most foully. 
alvar and teresa. 



alhadra. 
Why didst thou leave his children ? 
Demon, thou shouldst have sent thy dogs of hell 
To lap their blood ! Then, then I might have harden'd 
My soul in misery, and have had comfort. 
I would have stood far offi quiet though dark. 
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning 
For a deep horror of desolation. 
Too great to be one soul's particular lot ! 
Brother of Zagri ! let me lean upon thee. 

[Struggling to suppress her feelings. 
The time is not yet come for woman's anguish. 
I have not seen his blood — ^Within an hour 
Those little ones will crowd around and ask me, 
Where is our father ? I shall curse thee then ! 
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee 
thence ! 

TERESA. 

He doth repent ! See, see, I kneel to thee ! 

O let him live ! That aged man, his father 

ALHADRA {stemly) 
Why had he such a son ? 

[Shouts from the distance of, Rescue ! Rescue ! 

Alvar ! Alvar ! and the voice of Valdez heard. 

ALHADRA. 

Rescue 1 — and Isidore's Spirit unavenged ? 
The deed be mine ! [Suddenly stabs Ordonio. 

Now take my life ! 

ORDONIO (staggering from the wound). 

Atonement! 
Alvar (while with Teresa supporting Ordonio). 
Arm of avenging Heaven, 

Thou hast snatch'd from me my most cherish'd hope. 
But go ! my word was pledged to thee. 

ORDONIO. 

Away ! 
Brave not my father's rage ! I thank thee! Thou — | 
[Then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar. 



She hath avenged the blood of Isidore ! 

I stood in silence like a slave before her, 

That I might taste the wormwood and the gall, 

And satiate this self-accusing heart 

With bitterer agonies than death can give. 

Forgive me, Alvar ! 

Oh ! couldst thou forget me ! [Dies. 
[Alvar and Teresa bend over the body of Ordonio. 

ALHADRA {to the Moors). 
I thank thee, Heaven ! thou hast ordain'd it wisely, 
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point 
In misery, which makes the oppressed Man 
Regardless of his own life, makes him too 
Lord of the Oppressor's — Knew I a hundred men 
Despairing, but not palsied by despair. 
This arm should shake the Kingdoms of the World ; 
The deep foundations of iniquity 
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them ; 
The strong-holds of the cruel men should fall. 
Their Temples and their mountainous Towers should 

fall ; 
Till Desolation seem'd a beautiful thing. 
And all that were, and had the Spirit of Life, 
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth, 
Conquering and still to conquer ! 

[Alhadra hurries off with the Moors ; the stage f Us 
with armed Peasants and Servants, Zulimez 
and Valdez at their head. Valdez rushes into 
Alvar's arms. 

ALVAR. 

Turn not thy face that way, my father ! hide, 
Oh hide it from his eye ! Oh let thy joy 
Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing 
[Both kneel to Valdez 
valdez. 
My Son! My Alvar! bless. Oh bless him, Heaven! 

TERESA. 

Me too, my Father ? 

VALDEZ. 

Bless, Oh bless my children ! 

[Both rise. 

ALVAR, 

Delights so full, if unalloy'd with grief. 
Were ominous. In these strange dread events 
Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice. 
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice. 
Our inward monitress to guide or warn. 
If listen'd to ; but if repell'd with scorn. 
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears, 
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears ! 
Still bids, Remember ! and still cries, Too late ! 
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate. 



APPENDIX. 



Note 1, page 81, col. 1. 

You are a painter. 

The following lines I have preserved in this place, 
not so much as explanatory of the picture of the 
assassination, as (if I may say so without disrespect 
to the Public) to gratify ray own feelings, the passage 
being no mere fancy portrait ; but a sUght, yet not 
104 



REMORSE. 



95 



unfaithful profile of one,* who still lives, nobilitate 
fehx, arte clarior, vita, colendissimus. 

ZULIMEZ (^speaking ofAlvar in the third person). 
Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation. 
„ He told me, too, how in his early youth, 
And his tirst travels, 'twas his choice or chance 
To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice ; 
There won the love of that divine old man, 
Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian! 
Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
By the sweet mystery of lines and colors, 
Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror, 
That made the Absent present ; and to Shadows 
Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and 

motion. 
He loved the old man, and revered his art : 
And though of noblest birth and ample fortune. 
The young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
But this inalienable ornament. 
To be his pupil, and with filial zeal 
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons. 
Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. 
The Art, he honor'd thus, requited him : 
And in the following and calamitous years 
Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 

ALHADRA. 

And then he framed this picture? and unaided 
By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman 1 

ALVAR. 

A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! 

The imperishable memory of the deed 

Sustain'd by love, and grief, and indignation! 

So vivid were the forms within his brain. 

His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them ! 

Note 2, page 89, col. 1. 
The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken 
from the Tragedy, in the year 1797, and published 
in the Lyrical Ballads. But this work having been 
long out of print, I have been advised to reprint it, 
as a Note to the second Scene of Act the Fourth, p. 
89. 

Enter Teresa and Selma. 

TERESA. 

'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly. 

As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother. 

SELMA. 

Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be. 

That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet Lady, 

As often as I think of those dear times. 

When you two little ones would stand, at eve. 

On each side of my chair, and make me learn 

All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk 

In gentle phrase ; then bid me sing to you — 

'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been! 

TERESA. 

But that entrance, Selma ? 

SELMA. 

Can no one hear ? It is a perilous tale ! 

TERESA. 

No one. 



* Sir George Beaumont. (Written 1814.) 
O 



SELMA. 

My husband's father told it me, 
Poor old Sesina— angels rest his soul ! 
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel ? 
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, 
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost. 
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 
A pretty boy, but most unteachable— 
He never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead. 
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes, 
And whistled, as he were a bird himself: 
And all the autumn 't was his only play 
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them 
With earth and water on the stumps of trees. 
A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood, 
A gray-hair'd man, he loved this little boy: 
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him. 
He soon could wtite with the pen ; and from that time 
Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 
"So he became a rare and learned youth: 
But 01 poor wretch! he read, and read, and read. 
Till his brain turn'd ; and ere his twentieth year 
He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 
And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray 
With holy men, nor in a holy place. 
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him. 
And once, as by the north side of the chapel 
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse. 
The earth heaved under them with such a groan. 
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen 
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd; 
A fever seized him, and he made confession 
Of all the heretical and lawless talk 
Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized. 
And cast into that hole. My husband's father 
Sobb'd like a child — it almost broke his heart: 
And once as he was working near this dungeon, 
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, 
Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna 
To hunt for food, and be a naked man. 
And wander up and down at liberty. 
He always doted on the youth, and now 
His love grew desperate ; and defying death. 
He made that cunning entrance I described. 
And the young man escaped. 

TERESA. 

'Tis a sweet tale: 
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears. 
And what became of him ? 

SELMA. 

He went on shipboard 
With those bold voyagers who made discovery 
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother 
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain, 
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth. 
Soon after they arrived in that new world. 
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat. 
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight 
Up a great river, great as any sea. 
And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed, 
He lived and died among the savage men. 
105 



96 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A CHRISTMAS TALE. 
IN TWO PARTS. 



U$p Topl p^p^ TOiavra \iyeiv ^^iixSvog Iv wpq. 

^pud AthenjE0M. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The form of the following dramatic poem is in hum- 
ble imitation of the Winter's Tale of Shakspeare, 
except that I have called the first part a Prelude in- 
stead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resem- 
blance to the plan of the ancients, of which one 
specimen is left us in the -^schylian Trilogy of the 
Agamemnon, the Orestes, and the Eumenides. Though 
a matter of form merely, yet two plays, on different 
periods of the same tale, might seem less bold, than 
an interval of twenty years between the first and 
second act. This is, however, in mere obedience to 
custom. The effect does not, in reality, at all de- 
pend on the Time of the interval ; but on a very dif- 
ferent principle. There are cases in which an inter- 
val of twenty hours between the acts would have a 
worse effect (i. e. render the imagination less disposed 
to take the position required) than twenty years in 
other cases. For the rest, I shall be well content if 
my readers will take it up, read and judge it, as a 
Christmas tale. 



CHARACTERS. 



MEN. 
Emerick, usurping King of Illyria. 
Raab Kiuprili, an Elyrian Chieftain. 
Casimir, Son of Kiuprili. 
Chef Ragozzi, a Military Commander. 

WOMAN. 
Zapolya, Queen of Illyria. 



ZAPOLYA 



PART I. 



THE PRELUDE, ENTITLED, « THE USURP- 
ER'S FORTUNE." 

SCENE L 
Front of the Palace with a magnificent Colonnade. On 
one side a military Guard-House. Sentries pacing 
backward and forward before the Palace. Chef 
Ragozzi, at the door of the Guard-House, as looking 
forwards at some object in the distance. 

CHEF ragozzi. 

My eyes deceive me not, it must be he ! 
Who but our chief, my more than father, who 



But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait ? 
Lo ! e'en this eager and unwonted haste 
But agitates, not quells, its majesty. 
My patron ! my commander ! yes, 't is he ! 
Call out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes. 

Drums beat, etc. the Guard turns out. Enter Raab 

Kiuprili. 
raab kiuprili (making a signal to stop the drums, etc.) 
Silence! enough! This is no time, young friend! 
For ceremonious dues. This summoning drum, 
Th' air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter. 
Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear. 
Soldiers, 'tis well! Retire! your general greets you. 
His loyal fellow-warriors. [Chiards retire. 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

Pardon my surprise. 
Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended ! 
What may these wonders prophesy ? 

RAAB kiuprili. 

Tell me first, 
How fares the king ? His majesty still lives ? 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

We know no otherwise ; but Emerick's friends 
(And none but they approach him) scoff" at hope. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Ragozzi ! I have rear'd thee from a child, 

And as a child I have rear'd thee. Whence this air 

Of mystery ? That face was wont to open 

Clear as the morning to me, showing all things. 

Hide nothing from me. 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

most loved, most honor'd. 

The mystery that struggles in my looks, 
Betray'd my whole tale to thee, if it told thee 
That I am ignorant ; but fear the worst. 
And mystery is contagious. All things here 
Are full of motion : and yet all is silent : 
And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears. 
RAAB KIUPRILI (his hand to his heart). 

1 have trembling proof within, how true thou speakest 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery. 
Gives splendid anus, pays the commanders' debts, 
And (it is whisper'd) by sworn promises 
Makes himself debtor — hearing this, thou hast heard 

All {Then in a subdued and saddened voice.) 

But what my Lord will learn too soon himself 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Ha ! — Well then, let it come ! Worse scarce can 

come. 
This letter, written by the trembling hand 
Of royal Andreas, calls me from the camp 
106 



ZAPOLYA. 



97 



To his immediate presence. It appoints me, 

The Queen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm, 

And of the royal infant. Day by day, 

Robb'd of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king 

Yearns only to behold one precious boon, 

And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing. 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

Remember you, my Lord, that Hebrew leech, 
Whose face so much distemper'd you ? 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Barzoni ? 
I held him for a spy : but the proof failing 
(More courteously, I own, than pleased myself), 
I sent him from the camp. 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

To him in chief 
Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Hide nothing, I conjure you ! What of him ? 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

With pomp of words beyond a soldier's cunning, 
And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and whis- 
pers ! 
Talks in dark words of women's fancies ; hints 
That 'twere a useless and cruel zeal 
To rob a dying man of any hope. 
However vain, that soothes him : and, in fine. 
Denies all chance of offspring from the Queen. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

The venomous snake ! My heel was on its head, 
And (fool !) I did not crush it ! 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Nay, he fears 
Zapolya will not long survive her husband. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Manifest treason ! Even this brief delay 

Half makes me an accomplice (If he live), 

[Ts moving toward the palace. 
If he but live and know me, all ma y 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Halt ! {Stops him. 
On pain of death, my Lord ! am I commanded 
To stop all ingress to the palace. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Thou! 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

No place, no name, no rank excepted — 



RAAB KIUPRILL 



Thou! 



CHEF RAGOZZI. 

This life of mine, O take it. Lord Kiuprili ! 

I give it as a weapon to thy hands, 

Mine own no longer. Guardian of lUyria, 

Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself 

Thou art the framer of my nobler being : 

Nor does there live one virtue in my soul. 

One honorable hope, but calls thee father. 

Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace 

Is guarded from within, that each access 

Is throng'd by arm'd conspirators, watch'd by ruffians 

Pamper'd with gifts, and hot upon the spoil 

Which that false promiser still trails before them. 

I ask but this one boon — reserve my life 

Till I can lose it for the realm and thee ! 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

My heart is rent asunder. O my country, 
O fallen lUyria ! stand I here spell-bound ? 



Did my King love me ? Did I earn his love ? 

Have we embraced as brothers would embrace ? 

Was I his arm, his thunder-bolt ? And now 

Must I, hag-ridden, pant as in a dream ? 

Or, like an eagle, whose strong wings press up 

Against a coiling serpent's folds, can I 

Strike but for mockery, and with restless beak 

Gore my own breast ? — Ragozzi, thou art faithful ? 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Here before Heaven I dedicate my faith 
To the royal line of Andreas. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Hark, Ragozzi ! 
Guilt is a timorous thing ere perpetration : 
Despair alone makes wicked men be bold. 
Come thou with me ! They have heard my voice in 

flight. 
Have faced round, terror-struck, and fear'd no longer 
The whisthng javelins of -heir fell pursuers. 
Ha ! what is this ? 

[Black Flag displayed from the Tower of the Pal- 
ace : a death-bell tolls, etc. 
Vengeance of Heaven ! He is dead. 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

At length then 'tis announced. Alas! I fear. 
That these black death-flags are but treason's signals. 

RAAB KIUPRILI {looMng forwards anxiously). 
A prophecy too soon fulfill'd ! See yonder ! 
O rank- and ravenous wolves! the death-bell echoes 
Still in the doleful air — and see ! they come. 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Precise and faithful in their villany. 

Even to the moment, that the master traitor 

Had preordain'd them. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Was it over-haste. 
Or is it scorn, that in this race of treason 
Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons forth 
Their infamous plot even to an idiot's sense. 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Doubtless they deem Heaven too usurp'd ! Heaven's 

justice 
Bought like themselves ! 

[During this conversation music is heard, at first 
solemn and funereal, and then changing to 
spirited and triumphal. 

Being equal all in crime, 
Do you press on, ye spotted parricides ! 
For the one sole pre-eminence yet doubtful. 
The prize of foremost impudence in guilt ? 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

The bad man's cunning still prepares the way 
For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi ! 

[Musing to himself — then — 
Ragozzi ! I applaud. 
In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward 
And keeps the life-spark warm of future action 
Beneath the cloak of patient sufferance. 
Act and appear as time and prudence prompt thee ; 
I shall not misconceive the part thou playest. 
Mine is an easier part — 'to brave the Usurper. 

[Enter a procession of Emerick's Adherents, 
Nobles, Chieftains, and Soldiers, with Music. 
They advance toward the front of the Stage, 
Kiuprili makes the signal for them, to stop. — 
The Music ceases. 

107 



98 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LEADER OP THE PROCESSION. 

The Lord Kiuprili ! — Welcome from the camp. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Grave magistrates and chieftains of Illyria ! 

In good time come ye hither, if ye come 

As loyal men with honorable purpose 

To mourn what can alone be mourn'd ; but chiefly 

To enforce the last commands of royal Andreas, 

And shield the queen, Zapolya : haply making 

The mother's joy light up the widow's tears. 

LEADER. 

Our purpose demands speed. Grace our procession ; 
A warrior best will greet a warlike lung. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

This patent, written by your lawful king 
(Lo! his own seal and signature attesting) 
Appoints as guardians of his realm and oflSpring, 
The Queen, and the Prince Emerick, and myself. 

[Voices of Live King Emerick! an Emerick! an 
Emerick ! 
What means this clamor? Are these madmen's voices ? 
Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued 
To infamize the name of the king's brother 
With a lie black as Hell ? unmanly cruelty. 
Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ! [Murmurs. 
What mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here 
Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor ? 
One that has taken from you your sworn faith, 
And given you in return a Judas' bribe, 
Infamy now, oppression in reversion. 
And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ? 

[Loud murmurs, followed by cries — Emerick ! No 
Baby Prince ! No Changelings ! 
Yet bear with me awhile ! Have I for this 
Bled for your safety, conquer'd for your honor ! 
Was it for this, lUyrians ! that I forded 
Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice 
Fought with the foe, and stain'd its jagged points 
With gore from wounds, I felt not ? Did the blast 
Beat on this body, frost-and-famine-numb'd, 
Till my hard flesh distinguish 'd not itself 
From the insensate mail, its fellow- warrior ? 
And have I brought home with me Victory, 
And vsdth her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace, 
Her countenance twice lighted up with glory. 
As if I had charm'd a goddess down from Heaven ? 
But these will flee abhorrent from the throne 
Of usurpation ! 
[Murmurs increase — and cries of Onward ! onward ! 

Have you then thrown oflf shame. 
And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject. 
Throw ofl^ all fear ? I tell ye, the fair trophies 
Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe. 
Love's natural oflferings to a rightful king. 
Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor. 
This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes 
Of gold pluck'd from the images of gods 
Upon a sacrilegious robber's back. 

[During the last four lines, enter Lord Casimir, 
with expressions of anger and alarm. 

CASIMIR. 

Who is this factious insolent, that dares brand 
The elected King, our chosen Emerick ? 

[Starts — then approaching with timid respect. 
My father ! 



RAAB KIUPRILI (turning away). 

Casimir ! He, he a traitor ! 

Too soon indeed, Ragozzi ! have I learnt it. [Aside. 

CASIMIR (with reverence). 
My father and my Lord ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

I know thee not ! 

LEADER. 

Yet the remembrancing did sound right filial. » 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

A holy name and words of natural duty 
Are blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance. 

CASIMIR. 

O hear me. Sire ! not lightly have I sworn 

Homage to Emerick. Illyria's sceptre 

Demands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp. 

The queen Zapolya's self-expected oflfspring 

At least is doubtful : and of all our nobles, 

The king inheriting his brother's heart, 

Hath honor 'd us the most. Your rank, my Lord ! * 

Already eminent, is — all it can be — 

Confirmed : and me the king's grace hath appointed 

Chief of his council and the lord high-steward. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

(Bought by a bribe !) I know thee now still less. 

CASIMIR (struggling with Ms passion). 
So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here, 
That no power, save that holy name of father, 
Could shield the man who so dishonor'd me. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

The son of Raab Kiuprili ! a bought bond-slave, 
Guilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot, 
School'd to shrill forth his feeder's usurp'd titles. 
And scream, Long live king Emerick ! 

LEADER. 

Ay, King Emerick! 
Stand back, my Lord ! Lead us, or let us pass. 

SOLDIER. 

Nay, let the general speak ! 

SOLDIERS. 

Hear him ! Hear him ! 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Hear me. 
Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria, 
Hear, and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I 
Stood in your presence, honor'd by the king, 
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you. 
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe ? 
Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear ? 
Who here dare charg'e me with an orphan's rights 
Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended ? 
And shall I now be branded by a traitor, 
A bought bribed wretch, who, being called my son. 
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant 
Hensbane and aconite on a mother's grave ? 
The underling accomplice of a robber, 
That from a vddow and a widow's offspring 
Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel. 
And to the common father of his country 
A recreant ingrate ! 

CASIMIR. 

Sire ! your words grow dangerous. 
High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem 
Your age and wisdom. 'T is a statesman's virtue. 
To guard his country's safety by what means 
108 



ZAPOLYA. 



99 



It best may be protected — come what will 
Of these monks' morals ! 

RAAB KiUPRiLi (aside). 

Ha ! the elder Brutus 
Made his soul iron, though his sons repented. 
Tkey boasted not their baseness. 

[Starts, and draws his sword. 
Infamous changeling ! 
Recant this instant, and swear loyalty, 
And strict obedience to thy sovereign's will ; 
Or, by the spirit of departed Andreas, 

Thou diest 

[Chiefs, etc. rush to interpose ; during the tumult 
enter Emerick, alarmed. 

EMERICK. 

Call out the guard ! Ragozzi ! seize the assassin. 

Kiuprili? Ha! [With lowered voice, at the same 

time with one hand making signs to the guard 

to retire. 

Pass on, friends ! to the palace. 
[Music recmimences. — The Procession passes into 
the Palace. — During which time Emerick OTid 
Kiuprili regard each other stedfastly. 

emerick. 
What! Raab Kiuprih? What! a father's sword 
Against his own son's breast ? 

RAAB kiuprili. 

'T would be best excuse him. 
Were he thy son, Prince Emerick. I abjure him. 

emerick. 
This is my thanks, then, that I have commenced 
A reign to which the free voice of the nobles 
Hath call'd me, and the people, by regards 
Of love and grace to Raab Kiuprili's house ? 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

What right hadst thou, Prince Emerick, to bestow 
them? 

emerick. 
By what right dares Kiuprili question me ? 

RAAB kiuprili. 

By a right common to all loyal subjects — 

To me a duty ! As the realm's co-regent, 

Appointed by our sovereign's last free act, 

Writ by himself. — [Grasping the Patent. 

EMERICK {with a contemptuous sneer). 
Ay ! — Writ in a deUrium ! 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

I likewise ask, by whose authority 

The access to the sovereign was refused me ? 

EMERICK. 

By whose authority dared the general leave 
His camp and army, hke a fugitive ? 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

A fugitive, who, with victory for his comrade, 
Ran, open-eyed, upon the face of death ! 
A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodements 
To be belated in a loyal purpose — 
At the command, Prince ! of my king and thine, 
Hither I came ; and now again require 
Audience of Queen Zapolya ; and (the States 
Forthwith convened) that thou dost show at large, 
On what ground of defect thou'st dared annul 
This thy King's last and solemn act — hast dared 
Ascend the throne, of which the law had named, 
And conscience should have made thee, a protector. 



A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subject's questioning ! 
Yet for thy past well-doing — and because 
'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief 
Long cherish'd, that Illyria had in thee 
No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover 
Of her true weal and freedom — and for this, too, 
That, hoping to call forth to the broad day-light 
And fostering breeze of glory, all deservings, 
I still had placed thee foremost. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Prince ! I listen. 

EMERICK. 

Unwillingly I tell thee, that Zapolya, 

Madden'd with grief, her erring hopes proved idle — 

CASIMIR. 

Sire! speak the whole truth! Say, her frauds detected! 

EMERICK. 

According to the sworn attests in council 

Of her physician 

RAAB KIUPRILI (aside). 

Yes ! the Jew, Barzoni ! 

EMERICK. 

Under the imminent risk of death she lies, 

Or irrecoverable loss of reason, 

If known friend's face or voice renew the frenzy. 

CASIMIR (to Kiuprili). 
Trust me, my Lord! a woman's trick has duped you — 
Us too — but most of all, the sainted Andreas. 
Even for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly 
For her recovery that (the States convened) 
She may take coimsel of her friends. 

EMERICK. 

Right, Casimir! 
Receive my pledge, Lord General. It shall stand 
In her own will to appear and voice her claims ; 
Or (which in truth I hold the wiser course) 
With all the past pass'd by, as family quarrels. 
Let the Queen-Dowager, with unblench'd honors. 
Resume her state, our first Illyrian matron. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Prince Emerick ! you speak fairly, and your pledge too 
Is such, as well would suit an honest meaning. 

CASIMIR. 

My Lord! you scarce know half his gTace's goodness. 

The wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta, 

Bred in the convent of our noble ladies, 

Her relative, the venerable abbess. 

Hath, at his grace's urgence, woo'd and won for me. 

EMERICK. 

Long may the race, and long may that name flourish, 
Which your heroic deeds, brave chief, have render'd 
Dear and illustrious to all true lUyrians ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI {stcrnly). 
The longest line, that ever tracing herald 
Or found or feign'd, placed by a beggar's soul. 
Hath but a mushroom's date in the comparison : 
And with the soul, the conscience is coeval, . 
Yea, the soul's essence. 

EMERICK. 

Conscience, good my Lord, 
Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience. 
That a free nation should be handed down. 
Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance 
And the blind law of lineage ? That whether infant, 
Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot, 

109 



100 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance 

Of a free people's destiny ; should fall out 

In the mere lottery of a reckless nature, 

Where few the prizes and the blanks are countless ? 

Or haply that a nation's fate should hang 

On the bald accident of a midwife's handling 

The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull ? 

CASIMIR. 

What better claim can sovereign wish or need, 
Than the free voice of men who love their country ? 
Those chiefly who have fought for 't ? Who, by right, 
Claim for their monarch one, who having obey'd 
So hath best learnt to govern ; who, having suffer'd, 
Can feel for each brave sufferer and reward him ? 
Whence sprang the name of Emperor ? Was it not 
By Nature's fiat? In the storm of triumph, 
'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice 
Make itself heard : Let the commanding spirit 
Possess the station of command ! 

KAAB KIUPRILI. 

Prince Emerick, 
Your cause will prosper best in your ov^ti pleading. 

EMERICK {aside to Casimir). 
Ragozzi was thy school-mate — a bold spirit ! 
Bind him to us I — Thy father thaws apace ! 

{Then aloud. 
Leave us awhile, my Lord ! — Your friend, Ragozzi, 
Whom you have not yet seen since his return, 
Commands the guard to-day. 

[Casimir retires to the Gtiard-House ; and after a 
time appears before it with Chef Ragozzi. 
We are alone. 
What further pledge or proof desires Kiuprili ? 
Then, with your assent 

raab kiuprili. 

Mistake not for assent 
The unquiet silence of a stern Resolve, 
Throttling the impatient voice. I have heard thee, 

Prince ! 
And I have watch'd thee, too ; but have small faith in 
A plausible tale told with a flitting eye. 

[Emerick turns as about to call for the Guard. 
In the next moment I am in thy power, 
In this thou art in mine. Stir but a step, 
Or make one sign — I swear by this good sword, 
Thou diest that instant. 

emerick. 
Ha, ha ! — Well, Sir ! — Conclude your homily. 

raab kiuprili {in a somewhat suppressed voice.) 
A tale which, whether true or false, comes guarded 
Against all means of proof, detects itself. 
The Queen mew'd up — this too from anxious care 
And love brought forth of a sudden, a twin birth 
With the discovery of her plot to rob thee 
Of a rightful throne ! — Mark how the scorpion, False- 
hood, 
Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes 
Its sting in its own head ! 

EMERICK. 

Ay ! to the mark \ 
Raab Kiuprili {aloud) : \he and Emerick stand- 
ing at equi-distance from the Palace and 
the Cruard-House. 
Hadst thou believed thine ovm tale, hadst thou fancied 
Thyself the rightful successor of Andreas, 



Wouldst thou have pilfer'd from our school-boys' 

themes 
These shallow sophisms of a popular choice ? 
What people ? How convened ? or, if convened. 
Must not the magic power that charms together 
Millions of men in council, needs have power 
To win or wield them ? Better, O far better 
Shout forth thy titles to yon circling mountains, 
And with a thousand-fold reverberation 
Make the rocks flatter thee, and the volleying air, 
Unbribed, shout back to thee, King Emerick ! 
By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign power, 
To deepen by restraint, and by prevention 
Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood 
In its majestic channel, is man's task 
And the true patriot's glory ! In all else 
Men safelier trust to Heaven, than to themselves 
When least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds 
Where folly is contagious, and too oft 
Even wise men leave their better sense at home. 
To chide and wonder at them when return'd. 

emerick {aloud). 
Is 't thus, thou scoff 'st the people ! most of all. 
The soldiers, the defenders of the people ? 

RAAB KIUPBILI {ttloud). 

most of all, most miserable nation, 

For whom th' Imperial power, enormous bubble ! 
Is blown and kept aloft, or burst and shatter'd 
By the bribed breath of a lewd soldiery ! 
Chiefly of such, as from the frontiers far 
(Which is the noblest station of true warriors), 
In rank licentious idleness beleaguer 
City and court, a venom'd thorn i' the side 
Of virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant. 
Still ravening for fresh largess ! but with such 
What title claim'st thou, save thy birth ? What merits 
Which many a liegeman may not plead as well. 
Brave though I grant thee ? If a life outlabor'd 
Head, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war, 
For the land's fame and weal ,• if large acquests. 
Made honest by th' aggression of the foe 
And whose best praise is, that they bring us safety ; 
If victory, doubly-wreathed, whose under-garland 
Of laurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling 
Through the gray olive-branch ; if these, Pruace Eme- 
rick! 
Give the true title to the throne, not thou — 
No ! (let lUyria, let the infidel enemy 
Be judge and arbiter between us !) I, 

1 were the rightful sovereign ! 

emerick. 

I have faith 
That thou both think'st and hopest it. Fair Zapolya, 
A provident lady — 

raab kiuprili. 
Wretch, beneath all answer ! 

EMERICK. 

Oflfers at once the royal bed and throne ! 

raab KIUPRILI. 

To be a kingdom's bulwark, a king's glory, 
Yet loved by both, and tnisted, and trust- worthy, 
Is more than to be king ; but see ! thy rage 
Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee ! Ho ! 

[To the Guard. 

EMERICK. 

Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, ruffian ! 

no 



ZAPOLYA. 



101 



Thus long I have listen'd — Guard — hoi from the 

Palace. 

TJie Guard post from the Guard-House wiiJi 

Chef Ragozzi at their head, and then a 

number from the Palace — Chef Ragozzi de- 

mands Kiuprili's sword, and appreheivds him. 

CASIMIR. 

agony ! {To Emerick). Sire, hear me ! 

\To KiUPRiLi, who turns from him. 
Hear me, Father ! 

EMERICK. 

Take in arrest that traitor and assassin ! 

Who pleads for his Ufe, strikes at mine, his sovereign's. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

As the co-regent of the realm, 1 stand 
Amenable to none save to the States, 
Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slaves. 
Yet witness ye that before God and man 

1 here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason. 
And on strong gromids attaint him with suspicion 
Of murder — 

EMERICK. 

j Hence with the madman! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Your Queen's murder, 
The royal orphan's murder: and to the death 
iDefy liim, as a tyrant and usurper. 
! [Hurried off by Ragozzi and the Guard. 

EMERICK. 

jlEre twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre 
This insolence shall be avenged. 

CASIMIR. 

O banish him ! 
This infamy will crush me. O for my sake, 
i Banish him, my hege lord ! 
i EMERICK (scornfully). 

' What.' to the army? 

I Be calm, young friend ! Nought shall be done in anger. 
The child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence 
[ must take counsel for us both. Retire. 

[Exit Casimir in agitation. 
EMERICK {alone, looks at a Calendar). 
rhe changeful planet, now in her decay. 
Dips down at midnight, to be seen no more. 
With her shall sink the enemies of Emerick, 
Cursed by the last look of the waning moon ; 
And my bright destiny, with sharpen'd horns. 
Shall greet me fearless in the new-born crescent. 

[Exit. 
Scene changes to another view, namely, the back of the 
Palace — a Wooded Park, and Mountains. 



Enter Zapolya, with an Infant in her arms. 



Elush, 



ZAPOLYA. 

hush ! My trembling arm disturbs 



dear one 
thee! 

'Thou, the Protector of the helpless ! thou, 
j The widow's Husband and the orphan's Father, 
I Direct my steps ! Ah whither ? O send down 
I Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother. 
Driven forth into the cruel widerness ! 
(Hush, sweet one! Thou art no Hagar's offipring 

thou art 
tlie rightful heir of an anointed king ! 
iVhat sounds are those ? It is the vesper chant 
Of laboring men returning to their home ! 
rheu: queen has no home ! Hear me, heavenly Father 



And let this darlaiess 

Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings 
To hide and shield us! Start'st thou in thy slumbers? 
Thoit canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush ! 
Betray not thy poor mother ! For if they seize thee, 
I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe 
Thy vwcked uncle's lie. Ha ! what ? A soldier ? 

[She starts back — and enter Chef Ragozzi. 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

Sure Heaven befriends us. Well ! he hath escaped ! 

rare tune of a tyrant's promises 
That can enchant the serpent treachery 

From forth its lurking-hole in the heart. " Ragozzi ! 

" O brave Ragozzi! Count! Commander! What not?" 

And all this too for nothing ! a poor nothing ! 

Merely to play the underling in the murder 

Of my best friend Kiuprili ! His own son — monstrous! 

Tyrant ! I owe thee thanks, and in good hour 

Will I repay thee, for that thou thought'st me too 

A serviceable villain. Could I now 

But gain some sure intelligence of the queen : 

Heaven bless and guard her ! 

ZAPOLYA {coming fearfully forward). 

Art thou not Ragozzi ? 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

The Queen ! Now then the miracle is full ! 

1 see Heaven's wisdom in an over-match 

For the devil's cimning. This way, madam, haste i 

ZAPOLYA. 

Stay ! Oh, no ! Forgive me if I wrong thee ! 
This is thy sovereign's child : Oh, pity us. 
And be not treacherous! 



CHEF RAGOZZI {raising her). 
Madam ! For mercy's sake ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms ! 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

Take courage, madam! 'Twere too horrible, 
(I can not do't) to swear I'm not a monster! — 
Scarce had I barr'd the door on Raab Kiuprili — 

ZAPOLYA. 

Kiuprili! how? 

CHEF RAGOZZL 

There is not time to tell it. 
The tyrant call'd me to him, praised my zeal 
(And be assured I overtopt his cunning 
And seem'd right zealous). But time wastes : in fine, 
Bids me dispatch my trustiest friends, as couriers 
With letters to the army. The thought at once 
Flash'd on me. I disguised ray prisoner — 

ZAPOLYA. 

What! RaabKiuprih? 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

Yes ! my noble general ! 
I sent him off, with Emerick's own packet. 
Haste, and post haste — Prepared to follow him 

ZAPOLYA. 

Ah, how? Is it joy or fear? My limbs seem sinking! — 

CHEF RAGOZZI {supporting her). 
Heaven still befriends us. I have left my charger, 
A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule. 
One that can shoot a precipice like a bird. 
Just where the wood begins to climb the mountains. 
The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's guesses. 
Or scare the followers. Ere we reach the main road. 
The Lord Kiuprili will have sent a troop 

111 



102 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when he finds 
The treasure which I convoy I 

ZAPOLYA. 

One brief moment, 
That, praying for strength I may have strength. This 

babe, 
Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence 
Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevaiUng ! 
Through thee, dear babe! the inspiring thought 

possess'd me, 
When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace 
Emptied itself — (They sought my life, Ragozzi !) 
Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way 
To the deserted chamber of my Lord. — 

[Then to the infant. 
And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips, 
And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer ! 
Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty. 
As I removed the seal, the heavy arm 
Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger 
Seem'd pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven ! 
Lo, I was standing on the secret door. 
Which, through a long descent where all sound 

perishes. 

Let out beyond the palace. Well I knew it 

But Andreas framed it not ! He was no tyrant ! 

CHEF RAGOZZI. 

Haste, madam ! Let me take this precious burden ! 
[He kneels as he takes the child. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Take him ! And if we be pursued, I charge thee, 
Flee thou and leave me ! Flee and save thy king ! 

[Then as going off, she looks hack on the palace. 
Thou tyrant's den, be call'd no more a palace ! 
The orphan's angel at the throne of Heaven 
Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee 
A Queen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse. 
Henceforth a dragon's haunt, fear and suspicion 
Stand sentry at thy portals ! Faith and honor. 
Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted na- 
tion: 
And, for the iniquity that houses in thee. 
False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine 
(Fateful conjunction of malignant planets), 
Shall shoot their blastments on the land. The fathers 
Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men, 
And when they cry : Lo! a male child is horn ! 
The mother shall make answer with a groan. 
For bloody usurpation, like a vulture. 
Shall clog its beak vdthin Illyria's heart. 
Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant ! 
They shall be mock'd with sounds of liberty, 
And liberty shall be proclaim'd alone 
To thee, O Fire ! O Pestilence ! O Sword ! 
Till Vengeance hath her fill. — And thou, snatch'd 

hence, 
{Again to the infant.) poor friendless fugitive ! with 

Mother's waihng. 
Offspring of Royal Andreas, shalt return 
With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout 
In triumph to the palace of thy fathers ! [Exeunt. 



PART n. 



THE SEQUEL, ENTITLED "THE USURPER'S 
FATE." 



ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS. 

MEN. 

Old Bathory, a Mountaineer. 

Bethlen Bathory, the Young Prince Andreas, sup- 
posed Son of Old Bathory. 

Lord Rudolph, a Courtier, hut friend to the Queen's 
party. 

Laska, Steward to Casimir, betrothed to Glycine. 

Pestalutz, an Assassin, in Emerick's employ. 

WOMEN. 
Lady Sarolta, Wife of Lord Casimir. 
Glycine, Orphan Daughter of Chef Ragozzi. 

Between the flight of the Queen, and the civil war 
which immediately followed, and in which Emerick 
remained the victor, a space of twenty years is sup- 
posed to have elapsed. 



ACT L 

SCENE L 

A Mountainous Country. Bathory's Dwelling at 
the end of the Stage. 

Enter Lady Sarolta and Glycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Well, then ! our round of charity is finish'd. 
Rest, Madam ! You breathe quick. 
sarolta. 

What! tired, Glycine? 
No delicate court dame, but a mountaineer 
By choice no less than birth, I gladly use 
The good strength Nature gave me. 

GLYCINE. 

That last cottage 
Is built as if an eagle or a raven 
Had chosen it for her nest. 

sarolta. 

So many are 
The sufferings which no human aid can reach. 
It needs must be a duty doubly sweet 
To heal the few we can. Well ! let us rest, 

GLYCINE. 

There ? [Pointing to Bathory's dwelling Sarolta 
answering, points to where she then stands. 
sarolta. 
Here ! For on this spot Lord Casimir 
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain ridge 
I lost the misty image which so long 
Linger'd or seem'd at least to linger on it. 

GLYCYNE. 

And what if even now, on that same ridge, 

A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening, 

As it clomb dovsiiwards, shape itself at last 

To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost, 

Who but Sarolta's own dear Lord retum'd 

From his high embassy ? 

112 



ZAPOLYA. 



103 



SAROLTA. 

Thou hast hit my thought ! 
All the long day, from yester-morn to evening, 
The restless hope flutter'd about my heart. 
Oh, we are querulous creatures ! Little less 
Than all things can suffice to make us happy ; 
And little more than nothing is enough 
To discontent us. — Were he come, then should I 
Repine he had not arrived just one day earlier 
To keep his birth-day here, in his own birth-place. 

GLYCINE. 

But our best sports behke, and gay processions 
Would to my Lord have seem'd but work-day sights 
Compared with those the royal court affords. 

SAROLTA. 

I have small wish to see them. A spring morning, 

With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds, 

And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drops 

(Each orbed drop an orb of glory in it). 

Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retirement 

Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred : 

But in good truth, his loving jealousy 

Did but command, what I had else entreated. 

GLYCINE. 

And yet had I been born Lady Sarolta, 
Been wedded to the noblest of the realm, 
So beautiful besides, and yet so stately 

SAROLTA. 

Hush ! innocent flatterer ! 

GLYCINE. 

Nay ! to my poor fancy 
The royal court would seem an earthly heaven, 
Made for such stars to shine in, and be gracious. 

SAROLTA. 

So doth the ignorant distance still delude us ! 

Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee, 

In its mere self, a cold, drear, colorless void. 

Seen from below and in the large, becomes 

The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods ! 

Well ! but this broil that scared you from the dance ? 

And was not Laska there : he, your betroth'd ? 

GLYCINE. 

Yes, madam ! he was there. So was the maypole, 
For we danced round it. 

SAROLTA. 

Ah, Glycine ! why, 
Why did you then betroth yourself? 

GLYCINE. 

Because 
My own dear lady wish'd it ! 'twas you ask'd me ! 

SAROLTA. 

Yes, at my Lord's request, but never wish'd, 
My poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched. 
Thou know'st not yet the duties of a wife. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh, yes ! It is a wife's chief duty, madam. 
To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him ; 
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska 
But I shall tremble. 

SAROLTA. 

Not with fear, I think, 
For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the cottage. 
[Exit Glycine into the cottage, Sarolta continues 
her speech, looking after her. 
Something above thy rank there hangs about thee, 
And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion, 
P 



Yea, e'en in thy simplicity, Glycine, 
A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel 
More as a mother than a mistress to thee ! 
Thou art a soldier's orphan ! that — the courage, 
Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give 
A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee ! 
Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood, 
Or there 's no faith in instinct ! 
[Angry voices and clamor within, re-enter Glycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh, madam! there's a party of your servants, 
And my Lord's steward, Laska, at their head, 
Have come to search for old Bathory's son, 
Bethlen, that brave young man ! 'twas he, my lady, 
That took our parts, and beat off the intruders ; 
And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him 
With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king. 
Pray don't believe them, madam! This way! This 

way! 
Lady Sarolta 's here. [Calling vAthout. 

SAROLTA. 

Be calm, Glycine. 
Enter Laska and Servants with Old Bathory. 

LASKA (to Bathory). 
We have no concern with you ! What needs your 
presence ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

What! Do you think I'll suflfer my brave boy 
To be slander'd by a set of coward-ruffians. 
And leave it to their malice, — yes, mere malice ! — 
To tell its own tale ? 

[Laska and Servants bow to Lady Sarolta. 

SAROLTA. 

Laska ! What may this mean ? 
LASKA {pompously, as commencing a set speech). 
Madam ! and may it please your ladyship ! 
This old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathory, 
Stands charged, on weighty evidence, that he, 
On yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day, 
Did traitorously defame Lord Casimir : 
The lord high-steward of the realm, moreover 

SAROLTA. 

Be brief! We know his titles ! 

LASKA. 

And moreover 
Raved like a traitor at our liege King Emerick. 
And furthermore, said witnesses make oath. 
Led on the assault upon his lordship's servants ; 
Yea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman, 
His badge of livery of your noble house. 
And trampled it in scorn. 

SAROLTA {to the Servants who offer to speak). 

You have had your spokesman ! 
Where is the young man thus accused ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

I know not : 
But if no ill betide him on the mountains, 
He will not long be absent ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou art his father ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

None ever with more reason prized a son : 
Yet I hate falsehood more than I love him. 
But more than one, now in my lady's presence, 
Witness'd the affi-ay, besides these men of malice } 

And if I swerve from truth 

113 



104 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



GLYCINE. 

Yes ! good old man ! 
My lady ! pray believe him ! 

SAROLTA. 

Hush, Glycine ! 
Be silent, I command you. {Then to Bathory. 

Speak ! we hear you ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

My tale is brief. During our festive dance, 

Your servants, the accusers of my son, 

Offer'd gross insults, in unmanly sort, 

To our village maidens. He (could he do less ?) 

Rose in defence of outraged modesty, 

And so persuasive did his cudgel prove 

(Your hectoring sparks so over brave to women 

Are always cowards), that they soon took flight. 

And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters. 

Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words 

Which their own threats provoked. 

SAROLTA. 

Old man ! you talk 
Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect 
To the livery of our house ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

Even such respect 
As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf 
That hath begun to worry the poor lambs ! 

LASKA. 

Old insolent ruffian ! 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon ! pardon, madam ! 
I saw the whole affray. The good old man 
Means no ofience, sweet lady ! — You, yourself, 
Laska ! know well, that these men were the ruffians ! 
Shame on you ! 

SAROLTA (speaks with affected anger). 
What ! Glycine ! Go, retire ! 

[Exit Glycine, mournfully. 
Be it then that these men faulted. Yet yourself. 
Or better still belike the maidens' parents, 
Might have complain'd to us. Was ever access 
Denied you ? Or free audience ? Or are we 
Weak and imfit to punish our own servants ? 

old BATHORY. 

So then ! So then ! Heaven grant an old man patience ! 
And must the gardener leave his seedling plants. 
Leave his young roses to the rooting swine, 
While he goes ask their master, if perchance 
His leisure serve to scourge them from their ravage ? 

LASKA. 

Ho ! Take the rude clown from your lady's presence ! 
I will report her further will ! 

SAROLTA. 

Wait, then. 
Till thou hast learnt it ! Fervent, good old man ! 
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on 
A face of sternness, aUen to my meaning ! 

[Then speaks to the Servants. 
Hence ! leave my presence ! and you, Laska ! mark 

me ! 
Those rioters are no longer of my household ! 
If we but shake a dew-drop from a rose. 
In vain would we replace it, and as vainly 
Restore the tear of wounded modesty 
To a maiden's eye familiarized to license. — 
But these men, Laska — 



LASKA (aside). 

Yes, now 'tis coming. 

SAROLTA. 

Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards, 
That they have sought to piece out their revenge 
With a tale of words lured from the lips of anger. 
Stamps them most dangerous ; and till I want 
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need 
Their services. Discharge them ! You, Bathory ! 
Are henceforth of my household ! I shall place you 
Near my own person. When your son returns, 
Present him to us. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Ha ! what, strangers* here ! 
What business have they in an old man's eye ? 
Your goodness, lady — and it came so sudden — 
I cannot — ^must not — let you be deceived. 
I have yet another tale, but — [Then to Sarolta asic(iB. 
Not for all ears ! 

SAROLTA. 

I oft have pass'd your cottage, and still praised 
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms 
The gusts of April shower'd aslant its thatch. 
Come, you shall show it me ! And while you bid it 
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness 
The oil of gladness glittering on the water 
Of an ebbing grief. 

[Bathory bowing, shows her into his cottage. 
LASKA {alone). 

Vexation! baffled! school'd! 
Ho ! Laska ! wake ! why ? what can all this mean ? 
She sent away that cockatrice in anger ! 
Oh the false witch ! It is too plain, she loves him 
And now, the old man near my lady's person, 
She '11 see this Bethlen hourly ! 

[Laska flings himself into the seat. Glycine 
peeps in timidly. 

GLYCINE. 



Is my lady gone ? 



Laska! Laska! 



LASKA (surlily). 
Gone. 

glycine. 
Have you yet seen him ? 
Is he retum'd ? 

[Laska starts up from his seat. 
Has the seat stung you, Laska ? 

LASKA. 

No ! serpent ! no ; 'tis you that sting me ; you ! 
What! you would cling to him again! 

GLYCINE. 

Whom? 

LASKA. 

Bethlen! Bethlen! 
Yes ; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him ! 
Ha ! you forget the scene of yesterday ! 
Mute ere he came, but then — Out on your screams^ 
And your pretended fears ! 

GLYCINE. 

Your fears, at least, 
Were real, Laska ! or your trembling limbs 
And white cheeks play'd the hypocrites most vilely ! 



* Refers to the tear, which he feels starting in his eye. The 
following line was borrowed unconsciously from Mr. Wot 
worth's Excursion. 

114 



ZAPOLYA. 



105 



LA SKA. 

I fear! whom? What? 

GLYCINE. 

I know, what I should fear, 
Were I in Laska's place. 

LASKA. 

What? 

GLYCINE. 

My own conscience, 
For having fed my jealousy and envy 
With a plot, made out of other men's revenges, 
Against a brave and innocent young man's hfe ! 
Yet, yet, pray tell me ! 

LASKA {malignantly). 

You will know too soon. 

GLYCINE. 

Would I could find my lady ! though she chid me — 
Yet this suspense — {Going. 

LASKA. 

Stoft! stop ! one question only — 
I am quite calm — 

GLYCINE. 

Ay, as the old song says, 
Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove. 
Nay now, I have marr'd the verse : well ! this one 
question — 

LASKA. 

Are you not bound to me by your own promise ? 
And is it not as plain — 

GLYCINE. 

Halt! that's two questions. 

LASKA. 

Pshaw ! Is it not as plain as impudence, 

That you're in love with this young swaggering 



Bethlen Bathory ? When he was accused. 

Why press'd you forward ? Why did you defend him ? 

GLYCINE. 

Question meet question : that 's a woman's privilege. 

Why, Laska, did you urge Lord Casimir 

To make my lady force that promise from me ? 

LASKA. 

So then, you say, Lady Sarolta forced you ? 

GLYCINE. 

Could I look up to her dear countenance. 

And say her nay ? As far back as I wot of, 

All her commands were gracious, sweet requests. 

How could it be then, but that her requests 

Must needs have sounded to me as commands ? 

And as for love, had I a score of loves, 

I 'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistress. 

LASKA. 

Not one for Bethlen ! 

GLYCINE. 

Oh! that's a different thing. 
To be sure he 's brave, and handsome, and so pious 
To his good old father. But for loving him — 
3\ay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska ! 
Poor youth ! I rather think I grieve for him ; 
For I sigh so deeply when I think of him ! 
And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes, 
And my heart beats ; and all because I dreamt 
That the war-wolf* had gored him as he hunted 
In the haunted forest ! 



* For the best account of the War-wolf or Lycanthropua, see 
DraytorCs Moon-calf, Chalmers' English Poets, vol. iv. p. 
13 e. 



LASKA. 

You dare own all this ? 
Your lady will not warrant promise-breach. 
Mine, pamper'd Miss ! you shall be ; and I '11 make 

you 
Grieve for him with a vengeance. Odds, my fingers 
Tingle already ! [Makes threatening signs. 

GLYCINE (aside). 
Ha ! Bethlen coming this way ! 
[Glycine then cries out as if afraid of being beaten 
Oh, save me ! save me ! Pray don't kill me, Laska ! 
Enter Bethlen in a Hunting Dress. 

BETHLEN. 

What, beat a woman ! 

LASKA (to Glycine). 
O you cockatrice ! 

BETHLEN. 

Unmanly dastard, hold ! 

LASKA [pompously). 

Do you chance to know 
Who — I — am. Sir ? — (S'death how black he looks ') 

BETHLEN. 

I have started many strange beasts in my time, 
But none less like a man, than this before me 
That lifts his hand against a timid female. 

LASKA. 

Bold youth ! she 's mine. 

GLYCINE. 

No, not my master yet, 
But only is to be ; and all because 
Two years ago my lady ask'd me, and 
I promised her, not him ; and if she'll let me, 
I '11 hate you, my Lord's steward. 

BETHLEN. ~ 

Hush, Glycine ' 

GLYCINE. 

Yes, I do, Bethlen ; for he just now brought 
False witnesses to swear away your life : 
Your life, and old Bathory's too. 

BETHLEN. 

Bathory's ! 

Where is my father ? Answer, or Ha ! gone ! 

[Laska during this time slinks of the Stage, using 
threatening gestures to Glycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh, heed not him ! I saw you pressing onward. 
And did but feign alarm. Dear gallant youth. 
It is your life they seek ! 

BETHLEN. 

My life ? 

GLYCINE. 

Alas! 
Lady Sarolta even— 

BETHLEN. 

She does not know me ! 

GLYCINE. 

Oh that she did ! she could not then have spoken 
With such stern countenance. But though she spurn 

me, 
I will kneel, Bethlen — 

BETHLEN. 

Not for me, Glycine ! 
What have I done ? or whom have I offended ? 

GLYCINE. 

Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous, of the king. 
[Bethlen mutters to himself indignantly. 
GLYCINE (aside). 
So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god, 
The shaft just flown that killed the serpent ! 
115 



106 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



BETHLEN {muttering aside). 



King! 



GLYCINE. 

Ah, often have I wish'd you were a king. 

You would protect the helpless everywhere, 

As you did us. And I, too, should not then 

Grieve for you, Bethlen, as I do ; nor have 

The tears come in my eyes ; nor dream bad dreams 

That you were kill'd in the forest; and then Laska 

Would have no right to rail at me, nor say 

(Yes, the base man, he says) that I — I love you. 

BETHLEN. 

Pretty Glycine ! wert thou not betrothed — 
But in good truth I know not what I speak. 
This luckless morning I have been so haunted 
With my own fancies, starting up like omens. 
That I feel like one, who waking from a dream 
Both asks and answers wildly — But Bathory ? 

GLYCINE. 

Hist! 'tis my lady's step! She must not see you! 

[Bethlen retires. 
Enter from the Cottage Sarolta and Bathory. 

SAROLTA. 

Go, seek your son ! I need not add, be speedy — 
You here, Glycine ? [Exit Bathory. 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon, pardon, Madam ! 
If you but saw the old man's son, you would not, 
You could not have him harm'd. 

SAROLTA. 

Be calm, Glycine ! 

GLYCINE. 

No, I shall break my heart. [Sobbing. 

SAROLTA {taking her hand). 

Ha ! is it so ? 
O strange and hidden power of sympathy, 
That of like fates, though all unknown to each. 
Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's 
Drawing by dim disquiet ! 

GLYCINE. 

Old Bathory— 

SAROLTA. 

Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tears. 
Yes, in good truth. Glycine, this same Bethlen 
Seems a most noble and deserving youth. 

GLYCINE. 

My lady does not mock me ? 

SAROLTA. 



Where is Laska? 



Has he not told thee ? 



Nothing. In his fear — 
Anger, I mean — stole off— I am so flutter'd — 
Left me abruptly — 

SAROLTA, 

His shame excuses him ! 
He is somewhat hardly task'd ; and in discharging 
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself 
Bathory and the youth henceforward live 
Safe in my Lord's protection. 

GLYCINE. 

The saints bless you ! 
Shame on my graceless heart ! How dared I fear 
Lady Sarolta could be cruel ' 



Come, 
Be yourself, girl ! 

GLYCINE. 

O, 'tis so full here. [At her heart 
And now it cannot harm him if I tell you, 
That the old man's son — 

SAROLTA. 

Is not that old man's son ! 
A destiny, not unlike thine own, is his. 
For all I know of thee is, that thou art 
A soldier's orphan : left when rage intestine 
Shook and ingulf 'd the pillars of Illyria. 
This other fragment, thrown back by that same earth- 
quake. 
This, so mysteriously inscribed by Nature, 
Perchance may piece out and interpret thine. 
Command thyself I Be secret ! His true fathe r 
Hear'st thou ? 

GLYCINE {eagerly). 
O tell— 
BETHLEN {who had overheard the last few words, now 
rushes out). 
Yes, tell me. Shape from Heaven ! 
Who is my father ? 

SAROLTA {gazing with surprise). 

Thine? 7%?/ father? Rise! 

GLYCINE. 

Alas ! He hath alarm'd you, my dear lady ! 

SAROLTA. 

His countenance, not his act ! 

GLYCINE. 

Rise, Bethlen! Rise! 
bethlen. 
No ; kneel thou too ! and with thy orphan's tongue 
Plead for me ! I am rooted to the earth. 
And have no power to rise ! Give me a father ! 
There is a prayer in those uplifted eyes 
That seeks high Heaven ! But I will overtake it, 
And bring it back, and make it plead for me 
In thine own heart ! Speak ! speak ! Restore to me 
A name in the world ! 

SAROLTA, 

By that blest Heaven I gazed at, 
I know not who thou art. And if I knew, 
Dared I — But rise ! 

BETHLEN. 

Blest spirits of my parents, 
Ye hover o'er me now ! Ye shine upon me ! 
And like a flower that coils forth from a ruin, 
I feel and seek the light, I cannot see ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou see'st yon dim spot on the mountain's ridge. 
But what it is thou know'st not Even such 
Is all I know of thee — haply, brave youth. 
Is all Fate makes it safe for thee to Imow ! 

BETHLEN. 

Safe ? safe ? O let me then inherit danger, 
And it shall be my birth-right ! 

SAROLTA {aside). 

That look again ! — 
The wood which first incloses, and then skirts 
The highest track that leads across the mountains- 
Thou know'st it, Bethlen ? 

BETHLEN. 

Lady, 'twas my wont 
116 



ZAPOLYA. 



107 



To roam there in my childhood oft alone, 
And mutter to myself the name of father. 
For still Bathory (why, till now I guess'd not) 
Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing 
Gazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror 

GLYCINE. • 

Madam, that wood is haunted by the war- wolves, 

Vampires, and monstrous 

SAROLTA {with a smile). 

Moon-calves, credulous girl 
Haply some o'ergrown savage of the forest 
Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rest. 

[Then speaking again to Bethlen. 
After that last great battle (O yoimg man ! 
Thou wakest anew my life's sole anguish), that 
Which fix'd Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory 
Led by a cry, far inward from the track, 
In the hollow of an old oak, as in a nest, 
Did find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe : 
The robe, that wrapt thee, was a widow's mantle. 

BETHLEN. 

An infant's weakness doth relax my frame. 

say — I fear to ask 

SAROLTA. 

And I to tell thee. 

BETHLEN. 

Strike ! O strike quickly ! See, I do not shrink. 

[Striking his breast,. 

1 am stone, cold stone. 

SAROLTA. 

Hid in a brake hard by, 
Scarce by both palms supported from the earth, 
A wounded lady lay, whose life fast waning 
Seem'd to survive itself in her fixt eyes, 
That strain'd towards the babe. At length one arm 
Painfully from her own weight disengaging, 
She pointed first to Heaven, then from her bosom 
Drew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated 
Thy foster-father took thee in his arms. 
And, kneehng, spake : If aught of this world's com- 
fort 
Can reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth. 
That at my life's risk I will save thy child ! 
Her countenance work'd, as one that seem'd pre- 
paring 
A loud voice, but it died upon her lips 
In a faint whisper, "Fly! Save him! Hide — hide 
all!" 

BETHLEN. 

And did he leave her ? What ! Had I a mother ? 
1 And left her bleeding, dying 1 Bought I vile life 
j With the desertion of a dying mother ? 

Oh agony ! 

GLYCINE. 

Alas ! thou art bewilder'd, 
And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant ! 

BETHLEN. 

What else can I remember, but a mother 
Mangled and left to perish ? 

SAROLTA. 

Hush, Glycine ! 
It is the ground-swell of a teeming instinct : 
Let it but lift itself to air and sunshine, 
And it will find a mirror in the waters. 
It now makes boil above it. Check him not ! 

BETHLEN. 

O that I were difl^used among the waters 
That pierce into the secret depths of earth. 
And find their way in darkness ! Would that I 
Could spread myself upon the homeless winds ! 



And I would seek her ! for she is not dead ! 
She can not die ! O pardon, gracious lady ; 
You were about to say, that he return'd — 

SAROLTA. 

Deep Love, the godlike in us, still believes 
Its objects as immortal as itself! 

BETHLEN. 

And found her still — 

SAROLTA. 

Alas ! he did return : 
He left no spot unsearch'd in all the forest. 
But she (I trust me by some friendly hand) 
Had been borne off. 

BETHLEN. 

O whither ? 

GLYCINE. 

Dearest Bethlen ! 
I would that you could weep like me ! O do not 
Gaze so upon the air ! 

SAROLTA {continuing the story). 

While he was absent, 
A friendly troop, 't is certain, scour'd the wood. 
Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick. 

BETHLEN. 

Emerick ! 
Oh Hell! 

GLYCINE {to silence him). 
Bethlen ! 

BETHLEN. 

Hist ! I '11 curse him in a whisper ! 
This gracious lady must hear blessings only. 
She hath not yet the glory round her head. 
Nor those strong eagle wings, which made swift 

way 
To that appointed place, which I must seek : 
Or else she were my mother ! 

SAROLTA. 

Noble youth! 
From me fear nothing ! Long time have I owed 
Offerings of expiation for misdeeds 
Long pass'd that weigh me down, though innocent ! 
Thy foster-father hid the secret from thee. 
For he perceived thy thoughts as they expanded. 
Proud, restless, and ill-sorting with thy state ! 
Vain was his care ! Thou 'st made thyself suspected 
E 'en where Suspicion reigns, and asks no proof 
But its own fears ! Great Nature hath endow'd thee 
With her best gifts ! From me thou shalt receive 
All honorable aidance ! But haste hence ! 
Travel will ripen thee, and enterprise 
Beseems thy years ! Be thou henceforth my soldier ! 
And whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe 
That in each noble deed, achieved or suflfer'd. 
Thou solvest best the riddle of thy birth ! 
And may the light that streams from thine own 

honor 
Guide thee to that thou seekest ! 

GLYCINE. 

Must he leave us? 

BETHLEN. 

And for such goodness can I return nothing. 
But some hot tears that sting mine eyes ? Some sighs 
That if not breathed would swell my heart to sti- 
fling ? 
May Heaven and thine own virtues, high-born lady 
Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof 
To scare all evil from thee ! Yet, if fate 
Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger, 
From the uttermost region of the earth, methinks. 
Swift as a spirit invoked, I should be with thee ! 
117 



108 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And then, perchance, I might have power to unbosom 
These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fair as thine 
Have gazed on me with tears of love and anguish, 
Which these eyes saw not, or beheld unconscious ,- 
And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayers, 
Have been talk'd to me ! But this tongue ne'er 

soothed 
A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name ! 
O, at how dear a price have I been loved, 
And no love could return ! One boon then, lady ! 
Where'er thou bidd'st, I go thy faithful soldier, 
But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding 
Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravine 
Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest ! 
Or if avengers more than human haunt there, 
Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly, 
They shall make answer to me, though my heart's 

blood 
Should be the spell to bind them. Blood calls for 

blood 1 

[Eodt Bethlen. 

SAROLTA. 

Ah ! it was this I fear'd. To ward off this 
Did I withhold from him that old Bathory 
Returning, hid beneath the self-same oak, 
Where the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel 
Bound on his infant arm. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh, let me fly 
And stop him ! Mangled limbs do there lie scatter'd 
Till the lured eagle bears them to her nest. 
And voices have been heard ! And there the plant 

grows 
That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard 
Power to put on the fell hyena's shape. 

SAROLTA. 

What idle tongue hath witch'd thee, Glycine ? 
I hoped that thou hadst learnt a nobler faith. 

GLYCINE. 

O chide me not, dear lady ! question Laska, 
Or the old man. 

SAROLTA. 

Forgive me, I spake harshly. 
It is indeed a mighty sorcery 
That doth enthral thy young heart, my poor girl : 
And what hath Laska told thee ? 

GLYCINE. 

Three days past 
A courier from the king did cross that wood ; 
A wilful man, that arm'd himself on purpose : 
And never hath been heard of from that time ! 

[Sound of horns without. 

SAROLTA. 

Hark ! dost thou hear it ? 

GLYCINE. 

'T is the sound of horns ! 
Our huntsmen are not out ! 

SAROLTA. 

Lord Casimir 
Would not come thus ! [Horns again. 

GLYCINE. 

Still louder 

SAROLTA. 

Haste we hence ! 
For I believe in part thy tale of terror ! 
But, trust me, 't is the irmer man transform'd : 
Beasts in the shape of men are worse than war- 
wolves. 



[Sarolta and Glycine exeunt Trumpets etc, louder. 
Enter Emerick, Lord Rudolph, Laska, and 
Huntsmen and Attendants. 

RUDOLPH. 

A gallant chase, Sire. 

emerick. 

Ay, but this new quarry 
That we last started seems worth all the rest. 

[Then to Laska 
And you — excuse me — what 's your name ? 

LASKA. 

Whatever 
Your Majesty may please. 

emerick. 

Nay, that 's too late, man. 
Say, what thy mother and thy godfather 
Were pleased to call thee ? 
laska. 
Laska, my liege Sovereign. 

EMERICK. 

Well, my liege subject Laska ! And you are 
Lord Casimir's steward ? 

LASKA. 

And your majesty's creature. 

EMERICK. 

Two gentle dames made off at our approach. 
Which was your lady ? 

LASKA. 

My liege lord, the taller. 
The other, please your grace, is her poor handmaid. 
Long since betrothed to me. But the maid's firo- 

ward — 
Yet would your grace but speak — 

EMERICK. 

Hum, master steward ! 
I am honor'd with this sudden confidence. 
Lead on. [To Laska, then to Rudolph. 

Lord Rudolph, you '11 announce our coming. 
Greet fair Sarolta from me, and entreat her 
To be our gentle hostess. Mark, you add 
How much we grieve, that business of the state 
Hath forced us to delay her lord's return. 

lord RUDOLPH (flside). 
Lewd, ingrate tyrant ! Yes, I will announce thee. 

EMERICK. 

Now onward all. [Exeunt attendants 

EMERICK (solus). 

A fair one, by my faith ! 
If her face rival but her gait and stature, 
My good friend Casimir had his reasons too. 
" Her tender health, her vow of strict retirement. 
Made early in the convent — His word pledged — " 
All fictions, all ! fictions of jealousy. 
Well ! if the mountain move not to the prophet. 
The prophet must to the mountain ! In this Laska 
There 's somewhat of the knave mix'd up with dolt , 
Through the transparence of the fool, methought, ■ 
I saw (as I could lay my finger on it) 
The crocodile's eye, that peer'd up from the bottom 
This knave may do us service. Hot ambition 
Won me the husband. Now let vanity 
And the resentment for a forced seclusion 
Decoy the vdfe ! Let him be deem'd the aggressor 
Whose cunning and distrust began the game ! 

[Exit 
118 



ZAPOLYA. 



109 



ACT 11. 

SCENE I. 
A savage wood. At one side a cavern, overhung with 
ivy. Zapolya and Raab Kiuprili discovered: 
both, but especially the latter, in rude and savage 
garments. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Heard you then aught while I was slumbering ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

Nothing, 
Only your face became convulsed. We miserable ! 
Is Heaven's last mercy fled ? Is sleep grown treach- 
erous ? 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest in ! 

1 dreamt I had met with food beneath a tree, 
And I was seeking you, when all at once 
My feet became entangled in a net : 

Still more entangled as in rage I tore it. 

At length I freed myself, had sight of you, 

But as I hasten'd eagerly, again 

I found my frame encumber'd : a huge serpent 

Twined round my chest, but tightest roimd my throat. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Alas ! 'twas lack of food . for hunger chokes! 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

And now I saw you by a shrivell'd child 
Strangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither 
Touch'd you the ground methought, but close above it 
Did seem to shoot yourself along the air, 
And as you pass'd me, turn'd your face and shriek'd. 

ZAPOLYA. 

I did in truth send forth a feeble shriek, 
Scarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock'd sense craved 
To hear the scream, which you but seem'd to utter. 
For your whole face look'd like a mask of torture ! 
Yet a child's image doth indeed pursue me 
Shrivell'd with toil and penury ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Nay ! what ails you ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

A wondrous faintness there comes stealing o'er me. 
Is it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward, 
Life's setting sun behind him ? 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Cheerly ! The dusk 
Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up. 
Trust me I '11 bring thee food ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hunger's tooth has 
dnawn itself blunt. O, I could queen it well 
O'er my own sorrows as my rightful subjects. 
But wherefore, O revered Kiuprili ! wherefore 
Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fancies. 
Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat ? 
Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth ! 
But Heaven is just ! With tears I conquer'd thee, 
And not a tear is left me to repent with! 
Iladst thou not done already — hadst thou not 
SufFer'd — oh, more than e'er man feign'd of friend- 
ship? 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Yet be thou comforted ! What ! hadst thou faith 
When I turn'd back incredulous ? 'T was thy light 
That kindled mine. And shall it now go out. 
And leave thy soul in darkness ? Yet look up, 



And think thou see'st thy sainted lord comraission'd 

And on his way to aid us ! Whence those late dreams, 

Which after such long interval of hopeless 

And silent resignation, all at once 

Night after night commanded thy return 

Hither ? and still presented in clear vision 

This wood as in a scene ? this very cavern ? 

Thou darest not doubt that Heaven's especial hand 

Work'd in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance 

Is on the stroke : — for Misery cannot add 

Grief to thy griefs, or Patience to thy sufferance ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Cannot ! Oh, what if thou wert taken from me ? 
Nay, thou saidst well : for that and death were one. 
Life's, grief is at its height indeed ; the hard 
Necessity of this inhuman state 
Has made our deeds inhuman as our vestments. 
Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages, 
Danger our guest, and famine at our portal — 
Wolf-hke to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night ! 
At once for food and safety to affnghten 
The traveller from his road — 

[Glycine is heard singing vrithout. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Hark ! heard you not 
A distant chant ! 

SONG, BY Glycine. 

A sunny shaft did I behold. 

From sky to earth it slanted ; 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 

He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he troU'd 
Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
All else of amethyst! 

And thus he sang : " Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms, they make no delay : 
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far, far away ! 
To-day! to-day!" 

ZAPOLYA. 

Sure 'tis some blest spirit! 
For since thou slewest the usurper's emissary 
That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear 
Is as a wall, that wards off" the beleaguerer 
And starves the poor besieged. [Song again. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

It is a maiden's voice ! quick to the cave ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hark ! her voice falters ! [Exit Zapolya. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

She must not enter 
The cavern, else I will remain unseen ! 

[KiUPRiLi retires to one side of the stage : Glycine 
enters singing. 

GLYCINE (fearfully). 
A savage place ! saints shield me! Bethlen ! Bethlen! 
Not here ? — There 's no one here ! I '11 sing again. 

[Sings again. 
119 



110 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



If I do not hear my own voice, I shall fancy- 
Voices in all chance sounds ! [Starts. 
'Twas some dry branch 
Dropt of itself! Oh, he went forth so rashly. 
Took no food with him — only his arms and boar-spear! 
What if I leave these cakes, this cruse of wine, 
Here by this cave, and seek him with the rest? 

RAAB KIUPRILI {unscen). 
Leave them and flee ! 

GLYCINE {shrieks, then recovering). 
Where are you ? 
RAAB KIUPRILI {stUl unsccn). 

Leave them ! 

GLYCINE. 

'T is Glycine! 
Speak to me, Bethlen ! speak in your own voice ! 
All silent ! — If this were the war- wolf 's den ! 
'Twas not his voice ! — 

[Glycine leaves the provisions, and exit fearfully. 
KiUPRiLi comes forward, seizes them and carries 
them into the cavern. Glycine returns, having 
recovered herself. 

glycine. 
Shame ! Nothing hurt me ! 
If some fierce beast have gored him, he must needs 
Speak with a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst 
and hoarseness ! 

Speak, Bethlen! or but moan. St — St No— Bethlen! 

If I turn back, and he should be found dead here, 

[She creeps nearer and nearer to the cavern. 
I should go mad ! — Again ! 'T was my own heart ! 
Hush, coward heart ! better beat loud with fear, 
Than break with shame and anguish ! 

[As she approaches to enter the cavern, KlUPRlLl 
stops her. Glycine shrieks. 

Saints protect me ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy fears — 

GLYCINE. 

Save me ! 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Swear secrecy and silence ! 

GLYCINE. 

I swear ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest ? 

GLYCINE. 

Only 
A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food — 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Wherefore in this wood ? 

GLYCINE. 

Alas ! it was his purpose — 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

With what intention came he ? Wouldst thou save him, 
Hide nothing ! 

GLYCINE. 

Save him ! O forgive his rashness ! 
He is good, and did not know that thou wert human ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI {repeats the word). 
Human? 

[Then sternly. 
With what design ? 

GLYCINE. 

To kill thee; or 
If that thou wert a spirit, to compel thee 



By prayers, and with the shedding of his blood, 
To make disclosure of his parentage. 
But most of all — 

ZAPOLYA {rushing out from the cavern). 

Heaven's blessing on thee ! Speak ! 

GLYCINE. 

Whether his Mother live, or perish'd here ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Angel of Mercy, I was perishing 
And thou didst bring me food : and now thou bring'st 
The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolation 
To a mother's famish'd heart! His name, sweet 
maiden! 

GLYCINE. 

E'en till this morning we were wont to name him 
Bethlen Bathory ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Even till this morning? 
This morning? when my weak faith fail'd me wholly! 
Pardon, O thou that portion'st out our sufferance, 
And fill'st again the widow's empty cruse ! 
Say on ! 

GLYCINE. 

The false ones charged the valiant youth 
With treasonous words of Emerick — 

ZAPOLYA. 

Ha ! my son ! 

GLYCINE. 

And of Lord Casimir — 

RAAB KIUPRILI {aside). 
O agony ! my son ! 

GLYCINE. 

But my dear lady — 

ZAPOLYA and RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Who? 

GLYCINE. 

Lady Sarolta 
Frown'd and discharged these bad men. 

RAAB KIUPRILI {turning off and to himself). 

Righteous Heaven 
Sent me a daughter once, and I repined 
That it was not a son. A son was given me. 
My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear : 
And lo! that son became my curse and infamy. 

ZAPOLYA {embraces Glycine). 
Sweet innocent! and you came here to seek him, 
And bring him food. Alas ! thou fear'st ? 

GLYCINE. 

Not much ! 
My own dear lady, when I was a child 
Embraced me oft, but her heart never beat so. 
For I too am an orphan, motherless ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI {tO ZaPOLYA). 

O yet beware, lest hope's brief flash but deepen 
The after gloom, and make the darkness stormy! 
In that last conflict, following our escape. 
The usurper's cruelty had clogg'd our flight 
With many a babe, and many a childing mother. 
This maid herself is one of numberless 
Planks from the same vast wreck. 

[Then to Glycine again. 
Well! Casimir's wife- - 

GLYCINE. 

She is always gracious, and so praised the old man 
That his heart o'erflow'd, and made discovery 
That in this wood — 

120 



ZAPOLYA. 



Ill 



ZAPOLYA (m agitation). 
O speak ! 

GLYCINE. 

A wounded lady — 
[Zapoly A /amfs — they both support her. 

GLYCINE. 

Is this his mother ? 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

She would fain believe it, 
Weak though the proofs be. Hope draws towards 

Itself 
The flame with which it kindles. 

[Horn heard without. 
To the cavern ! 
\ Quick! quick! 

GLYCINE. 

Perchance some huntsmen of the king's. 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Emerick? 

GLYCINE. 

He came this morning — 
[They retire to the cavern, bearing Zapolya. Then 
enter Bethlen armed with a boar-spear. 

BETHLEN. 

I had a glimpse 
Of some fierce shape ; and but that Fancy often 
Is Nature's intermeddler, and cries halves 
With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it 
Bear off some human prey. O my preserver ! 
Bathory ! Father ! Yes, thou deservest that name ! 
Thou didst not mock me ! These are blessed findings ! 
The secret cipher of my destiny 

[Looking at his signet. 
Stands here inscribed : it is the seal of fate ! 
Ha ! — {Observing the cave). Had ever monster fitting 

lair, 'tis yonder! 
Thou yawning Den, I well remember thee ! 
Mine eyes deceived me not. Heaven leads me on ! 
Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance, 
To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine ! 

[Blows the horn — then a pause. 
Another blast ! and with another swell 
To you, ye charmed watchers of this wood ! 
If haply I have come, the rightful heir 
Of vengeance : if in me survive the spirits 
Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed streaming here I 
[Blows again louder. 
Still silent? Is the monster gorged? Heaven shield me! 
Thou, faithful spear ! be both my torch and guide. 
[As Bethlen is about to enter, Kiuprili speaks 

from the cavern unseen. 



Oh, fool ! mine eyes are duped by my own shudder- 
ing.— 
Those piled thoughts, built up in solitude, 
Year following year, that press'd upon my heart 
As on the altar of some unknown God, 
Then, as if touch'd by fire from heaven descending, 
Blazed up within me at a father's name — 
Do they desert me now ! — at my last trial ? 
Voice of command ! and thou, O hidden Light ! 
I have obey'd ! Declare ye by what name 
I dare invoke you ! Tell what sacrifice 
Will make you gracious. 



RAAB KIUPRILL 

Withdraw thy foot ! Retract thine idle spear, 
And wait obedient ! 

bethlen {in amazement). 

Ha ! What art thou ? speak ! 
RAAB KIUPRILI {sliU unseev). 
Avengers ! 

BETHLEN. 

By a dying mother's pangs. 
E'en such am I. Receive me ! 

RAAB KIUPRILI {Still unseen). 

Wait! Beware! 
At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light 
Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in darkness! 

BETHLEN. 

Ha! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed!— 

Q 



RAAB KIUPRILI {still unseen). 

Patience! Truth! Obedience! 
Be thy whole soul transparent ! so the Light 
Thou seekest may enshrine itself within thee ! 
Thy name ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ask rather the poor roaming savage, 
Whose infancy no holy rite had blest. 
To him, perchance ruue spoil or ghastly trophy, 
In chase or battle won, have given a name. 
I have none — but like a dog have answer'd 
To the chance sound which he that fed me call'd me. 

RAAB KIUPRILI {Still unseen). 
Thy birth-place ? 

BETHLEN. 

Deluding spirits, do ye mock me ? 
Question the Night! Bid Darkness tell its birth-place? 
Yet hear ! Within yon old oak's hollow trunk, 
Where the bats cling, have I survey'd my cradle! 
The mother-falcon hath her nest above it, 

And in it the wolf litters ! 1 invoke you, 

Tell me, ye secret ones ! if ye beheld me 
As I stood there, like one who having delved 
For hidden gold hath found a talisman, 
O tell ! what rites, what offices of duty 
This cygnet doth command ? What rebel spirits 
Owe homage to its Lord ? 

RAAB KIUPRILI {still unseen). 

More, guiltier, mightier, 
Than thou mayest summon! Wait the destined hour! 

BETHLEN. 

yet again, and with more clamorous prayer, 

1 importune ye ! Mock me no more with shadows ! 
This sable mantle — tell, dread voice ! did this 
Enwrap one fatherless ? 

ZAPOLYA {unseen). 

One fatherless ! 

BETHLEN {starting). 
A sweeter voice ! — A voice of love and pity ! 
Was it the soften'd echo of mine own ? 
Sad echo ! but the hope it kill'd was sickly. 
And ere it died it had been moum'd as dead ! 
One other hope yet lives within my soul ; 
Quick let me ask ! — while yet this stifling fear. 
This stop of the heart, leaves utterance ! — Are — are 



The sole remains of her that gave me life ? 
Have I a mother? 

[Zapolya rushes out to embrace him. Bethlen starts. 
Ha! 
ZAPOLYA {embracing him). 

My son ! my son ! 
A wretched— Oh no, no ! a blest— a happy mothert 
[They embrace. Kiuprili and Glycine come forward 
and the curtain drops. 

121 



112 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ACT in. 

SCENE I. 

A stalely Room in Lord Casimir's Castle. 

Enter Emerick and Laska. 

EMERICK. 

I do perceive thou hast a tender conscience, 
Laska, in all things that concern thine own 
Interest or safety. 

LASKA. 

In this sovereign presence 
I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure. 

EMERICK. 

Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I of all men 
Should covet thus the love of fair Soralta, 
Dishonoring Casimir ? 

LASKA. 

Far be it from me ! 
Your Majesty's love and choice bring honor v^rith them. 

EMERICK. 

Perchance, thou hast heard, that Casimir is my friend, 
Fought for me, yea, for my sake, set at nought 
A parent's blessing ; braved a father's curse ? 

LASKA (aside). 
Would I but knew now, what his Majesty meant ! 
Oh yes. Sire ! 'tis our common talk, how Lord 
Kiuprili, my Lord's father — 

EME.RICK. 

'Tis your talk, 
Is it, good statesman Laska ? 

LASKA. 

No, not mine. 
Not mine, an please your Majesty ! There are 
Some insolent malcontents indeed that talk thus^ 
Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son, 
The fool that ran into the monster's jaws. 

EMERICK. 

Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us 

Of traitors ! But art sure the youth 's devoured ? 

LASKA. 

Not a limb left, an please your Majesty ! 
And that unhappy girl — 

EMERICK. 

Thou followed'st her 
Into the wood ? [Laska bows assent 

Henceforth then I'll believe 
That jealousy can make a hare a lion. 

LASKA. 

Scarce had I got the first glimpse of her veil. 
When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves 
Of the wood shake — 

EMERICK. 

Made thee shake like a leaf! 

LASKA. 

The war- wolf leapt; at the first plunge he seized her; 
Forward I rush'd ! 

EMERICK. 

Most marvellous ! 

LASKA. 

Hurl'd my javelin ; 
Which from his dragon-scales recoiling — 

EMERICK. 

Enough ! 
And take, friend, this advice. When next thou 
tonguest it, 



Hold constant to thy exploit vdth this monster. 
And leave untouch'd your common talk aforesaid, 
What your Lord did, or should have done. 

LASKA. 

i»fy talk? 
The saints forbid ! I always said, for my part, 
"Was not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend ? 
Was not that friend a king ? Whatever he did 
'Ttvas all from pure love to his Majesty." 

EMERICK. 

And this then was thy talk? While knave and coward. 

Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost. 

In slips the fool and takes the place of both. 

Babbler ! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men. 

He loved himself, loved honors, wealth, dominion. 

All these were set upon a father's head : 

Good truth ! a most unlucky accident ! 

For he but wish'd to hit the prize ; not graze 

The head that bore it : so with steady eye 

Off flew the parricidal arrow. — Even 

As Casimir loved Emerick, Emerick 

Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonor. 

He wink'd not then, for love of me forsooth ! 

For love of me now let him wink ! Or if 

The dame prove half as wise as she is fair. 

He may still pass his hand, and find all smooth. 

[Passing his hand across his brow. 

LASKA. 

Your Majesty's reasoning has convinced me. 

EMERICK (with a slight start, as one who had been 
talking aloud to himself: then with scorn). 

Thee! 
'Tis well ! and more than meant. For by my faith 
I had half forgotten thee, — Thou hast the key ? 

[Laska bows. 
And in your lady's chamber there's full space ? 

laska. 
Between the wall and arras to conceal you. 

EMERICK. 

Here ! This purse is but an earnest of thy fbrtime. 
If thou provest faithful. But if thou betrayest me. 
Hark you ! — the wolf that shall drag tkee to his den 
Shall be no fiction. 

[Eodt Emerick. Laska manet with a key m one 
hand, and a purse in the other. 

laska. 
Well then ! Here I stand. 
Like Hercules, on either side a goddess. 
Call this [Looking at the purse 

Preferment ; this (Holding up the key), Fidelity ! 
And first my golden goddess : what bids she ? 
Only : — " This way, your Majesty ! hush. The house 

hold 
Are all safe lodged." — Then, put Fidelity 
Within her proper wards, just turn her round — 
So — the door opens — and for all the rest, 
'Tis the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this. 
And — "I'm the mere earnest of your future fortunes." 
But what says the other ? — Whisper on ! I hear you ! 
[Putting the key to his ear. 
All very true ! — but, good Fidehty ! 
If I refuse king Emerick, vdll you promise, 
And swear, now, to unlock the dungeon-door. 
And save me from the hangman? Ay! you're silent* 
What ! not a word in answer ? A clear nonsuit ! 
Now for one look to see that all are lodged 

122 



ZAPOLYA. 



113 



At the due distance — then — yonder lies the road 
For Laska and his royal friend king Emerick ! 

[Exit Laska. Then enter Bathory and Bethlen. 

BETHLEN. 

He look'd as if he were some God disguised 
In an old warrior's venerable shape, 
To guard and guide my mother. Is there not 
Chapel or oratory in this mansion ? 
OLD bathory. 
Even so. 

BETHLEN. 

From that place then am I to take 
A helm and breastplate, both inlaid with gold, 
And the good sword that once was Raab Kiuprili's. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Those very arms this day Sarolta show'd me — 
With wistful look. I 'm lost in wild conjectures ! 

BETHLEN. 

tempt me not, e'en with a wandering guess. 
To break the first command a mother's will 
Imposed, a mother's voice made known to me ! 
"Ask not, my son," said she, " our names or thine. 
The shadow of the eclipse is passing off 

The full orb of thy destiny ! Already 
The victor Crescent glitters forth, and sheds 
O'er the yet lingering haze a phantom light. 
Thou canst not hasten it! Leave then to Heaven 
The work of Heaven : and tdth a silent spirit 
Sympathize with the powers that work in silence!" 
Thus spake she, and she look'd as she were then 
Fresh from some heavenly vision ! 

{Re-enter Laska, not perceiving them. 

LASKA. 

All asleep ! 
{Then observing Bethlen, stands in idiot-affright. 

1 must speak to it first — Put — put the question ! 

I'll confess all ! {Stammering with fear. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Laska ! what ails thee, man ? 
LASKA {pointing to Bethlen). 



There i 



OLD BATHORY. 

I see notlung ! where ? 



LASKA. 

He does not see it ! 
Bethlen, torment me not ! 

bethlen. 

Soft! Rouse him gently! 
He hath outwatch'd his hour, and half asleep. 
With eyes half open, mingles sight with dreams. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Ho! Laska! Don't you know us! 'tis Bathory 
And Bethlen ! 



LASKA {recovering 

Good now ! Ha ! ha ! an excellent trick. 
Afraid ! Nay, no offence ; but I must laugh. 
But are you sure now, that 'tis you, yourself. 

BETHLEN (holding Up his hand as if to strike him). 
Wouldst be convinced ? 

LASKA. 

No nearer, pray! consider! 
If it should prove his ghost, the touch would freeze me 
To a tomb-stone. No nearer ! 

BETHLEN. 

The fool is drunk! 



LASKA {still more recovering). 
Well now ! I love a brave man to my heart. 
I myself braved the monster, and would fain 
Have saved the false one from the fate she tempted 

OLD BATHORY. 

You, Laska ? 

BETHLEN {tO BaTHORY). 

Mark ! Heaven grant it may be so ! 
Glycine ? 

laska. 
She ! I traced her by the voice. 
You'll scarce believe me, when I say I heard 
The close of a song : the poor wretch had been 

singing ; 
As if she wish'd to compliment the war-wolf 
At once with music and a meal ! 

BETHLEN {tO BaTHORY). 

Mark that! 
laska. 
At the next moment I beheld her running. 
Wringing her hands with, Bethlen ! O poor Bethlen ! 
I almost fear, the sudden noise I made. 
Rushing impetuous through the brake, alarm'd her. 
She stopt, then mad with fear, turn'd round and ran 
Into the monster's gripe. One piteous scream 
I heard. There was no second — I — 

BETHLEN. 

Stop there ! 
We '11 spare your modesty ! Who dares not honor 
Laska's brave tongue, and high heroic fancy ? 

LASKA. 

You too, Sir Knight, have come back safe and sOund! 
You play'd the hero at a cautious distance ! 
Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward 
To slay the monster's stomach ? Dainties quickly 
Pall on the taste and cloy the appetite ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

Laska, beware ! Forget not what thou art ! 
Shouldst thou but dream thou 'rt valiant, cross thyself! 
And ache all over at the dangerous fancy! 

LASKA. 

What then ! you swell upon my lady's favor, 

High lords, and perilous of one day's growth ! 

But Other judges now sit on the bench ! 

And haply, Laska hath found audience there, 

Where to defend the treason of a son 

Might end in lifting up both Son and Father 

Still higher ; to a height from which indeed 

You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortune, 

Will be secured from falling to the ground. 

'T is possible too, young man ! that royal Emerick, 

At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry 

By whom seduced, the maid so strangely missing — 

BETHLEN. 

Soft ! my good Laska ! might it not suffice, 
If to yourself, being Lord Casimir's steward, 
I should make record of Glycine's fate ? 

LASKA. 

'Tis well! it shall content me ! though your fear 
Has all the credit of these lower'd tones. 

{Then very pompously 
First, we demand the manner of her death ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay! that's superfluous! Have you not just told us 
That you yourself, led by impetuous valor, 
Witness'd the whole ? My tale's of later date. 
123 



114 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



After the fate, from which your valor strove 
In vain to rescue the rash maid, I savv^ her! 

LASKA. 

Glycine ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay ! Dare I accuse wise Laska, 
Whose words find access to a monarch's ear, 
Of a base, braggart lie ? It must have been 
Her spirit that appear'd to me. But haply 
I come too late ? It has itself deliver'd 
Its own commission to you? 

OLD BATHORY. 

'Tis most likely! 
And the ghost doubtless vanish'd, when ive enter'd 
And found brave Laska staring wide — at nothing ! 



'Tis well! You've ready wits! I shall report them, 
With all due honor, to his Majesty ! 
Treasure them up, I pray ! a certain person, 
Whom the king flatters vdth his confidence, 
Tells you, his royal friend asks startling questions ! 
'Tis but a hint! And now what says the ghost? 

BETHLEN. 

Listen ! for thus it spake : "Say thou to Laska, 
Glycine, knowing all thy thoughts engross'd 
In thy new office of king's fool and knave, 
Foreseeing thou'lt forget with thine own hand 
To make due penance fcrr the wrongs thou'st caused her, 
For thy souVs safety, doth consent to take it 
From Bethlen's cudgel" — thus. [Beats him off. 

Off I scoundrel! off! 
[Laska runs away. 

OLD BATHORY. 

The sudden swelling of this shallow dastard 
Tells of a recent storm : the first disruption 
Of the black cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us. 

BETHLEN. 

E'en this reproves my loitering. Say where lies 
The oratory ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

Ascend yon flight of stairs! 
Midway the corridor a silver lamp 
Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber, 
And facing it, the low-areh'd oratory ! 
Me thou 'It find watching at the outward gate : 
For a petard might burst the bars, unheard 
By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly 
Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Emerick's message ! 

BETHLEN. 

There I will meet you ! And till then good night! 
Dear good old man, good night ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

O yet one moment ! 
What I repell'd, when it did seem my own, 
I cling to, now 'tis parting — call me father! 
It can not now mislead thee. O my son, 
Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name, 
Bethlen ! — ^say — ^Father to me ! 

BETHLEN. 

Now, and for ever' 
My father ! other sire than thou, on earth 
I never had, a dearer could not have ! 
From the base earth you raised me to your arms, 
And I would leap from off a throne, and kneeling. 
Ask Heaven's blessing from thy lips. My father ! 



BATHORY. 

Go! Go! 

[Bethlen breaks off and exit. Bathory looks 
affectionately after him. 
May every star now shining over us. 
Be as an angel's eye, to watqh and guard him . 

[Exit Bathory. 

Scene changes to a splendid Bed-Chamber, hung 
with tapestry. Sarolta in an elegant Night 
Dress, and an Attendant. 

attendant. 
We all did love her. Madam ! 

sarolta. 

She deserved it ! 
Luckless Glycine ! rash, unhappy girl ! 
'Twas the first time she e'er deceived me. 

attendant. 
She was in love, and had she not died thus, 
With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska, 
She would have pined herself to death at home. 

SAROLTA. 

Has the youth's father come back from his search ? 

attendant. 
He never wdll, I fear me, O dear lady ! 
That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man- 
It was quite cruel — " You 'II be sure," said he, 
" To meet with part at least of your son Bethlen, 
Or the war-wolf must have a quick digestion ! 
Go! Search the wood by all means! Go! I pray yoa!** 

sarolta. 
Inhuman wretch ! 

attendant. 
And old Bathory answer'd 
With a sad smile, "It is a witch's prayer. 
And may Heaven read it backwards." Though she 

was rash, 
'T was a small fault for such a punishment ! 

SAROLTA. 

Nay! 'twas my grief, and not my anger spoke. 
Small fault indeed ! but leave me, my good girl ! 
I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten. 

[Exit Attendant. 
O they were innocent, and yet have perish'd 
In their May of life ; and Vice grows old in triumph. 
Is it Mercy's hand, that for the bad man holds 

Life's closing gate ? 

Still passing thence petitionary hours 
To woo the obdurate spirit to repentance ? 
Or would this dullness tell me, that there is 
Guilt too enormous to be duly punish'd. 
Save by increase of guilt ? The Powers of Evil 
Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal. 
And Hell its own probation ! — Merciful Heaven, 
Rather than this, pour down upon thy suppliant 
Disease, and agony, and comfortless want! 
O send us forth to wander on, unshelter'd ! 
Make our food bitter with despised tears ! 
Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass ! 
Yea, let us sink dovra at our enemy's gate. 
And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread ! 
With all the heaviest worldly visitations. 
Let the dire father's curse that hovers o'er us 
Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit 
Of wrong'd Kiuprili be appeased. But only, 
Only, O merciful in vengeance ! let not 

124 



ZAPOLYA. 



115 



That plague turn inward on my Casimir's soul ! 
Scare thence the fiend Ambition, and restore him 
To his own heart ! O save him ! Save my husband ! 
{During the latter part of this speech, Emerick 
comes forward fromhis hiding-place. Sarolta 
seeing him, without recognizing him.. 
In such a shape a father's curse should come. 

EMERICK {advancing). 
Fear not ! 

SAROLTA. 

Who art thou ? Robber ! Traitor ! 

EMERICK. 

Friend ! 
Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies, 
Rapacious traitors, that would fain depose 
Joy, love, and beauty, from their natural thrones : 
Those lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead. 

SAROLTA. 

Strengthen me, Heaven ! I must not seem afraid ! 

[Aside. 
The king to-night then deigns to play the masker. 
What seeks your Majesty ? 

EMERICK. 

Sarolta's love ; 
And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet 

SAROLTA. 

Heaven guard the sovereign's power from such de- 
basement ! 
Far rather, Sire, let it descend in vengeance 
On the base ingrate, on the faithless slave 
Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements ! 
For whom ? Has Casimir deserved this insult ? 
O my misgiving heart ! If — if— from Heaven 
Yet not from you. Lord Emerick ! 

EMERICK. 

Chiefly from me. 
Has he not like an ingrate robb'd my court 
Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness ! 
First then on him I will administer justice — 
If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture. [/Seizes Aer. 

SAROLTA. 

Help! Treason! Help! 

EMERICK. 

Call louder ! Scream again ! 
Here 's none can hear you ! 

SAROLTA. 

Hear me, hear me. Heaven 

EMERICK. 

Nay, why this rage ? Who best deserves you ? Casimir, 
Emerick's bought implement, the jealous slave 
That mews you up vsdth bolts and bars ? or Emerick, 
Who proffers you a throne ? Nay, mine you shall be, 
Hence with this fond resistance I Yield ; then live 
This month a widow, and the next a queen ! 

SAROLTA. 

Yet, for one brief moment 
Unhand me, I conjure you. 

[She throws him off, and rushes towards a toilet. 

Emerick follows, and as she takes a dagger, 

he grasps it in her hand. 

EMERICK. 

Ha ! ha ! a dagger ; 
A seemly ornament for a lady's casket ! 
'Tis held, devotion is akin to love, 



[Struggling. 



But yours is tragic ! Love in war ! It charms me, 
And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces ! 

{During this speech, Bethlen enters armed). 

BETHLEN. 

Ruffian, forbear ! Turn, turn and front my sword ! 

EMERICK 

Pish ! who is this ? 

SAROLTA. 

O sleepless eye of Heaven ! 
A blest, a blessed spirit ! Whence earnest thou ? 
May I still call thee Bethlen ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ever, lady, 
Your faithful soldier ! 

EMERICK. 

Insolent slave ! Depart ! 
Know'st thou not me ? 

BETHLEN. 

I know thou art a villain 
And coward ! That, thy devilish purpose marks thee ! 
What else, this lady must instruct my sword ! 

SAROLTA. 

Monster, retire ! O touch him not, thou blest one ! 
This is the hour, that fiends and damned spirits 
Do walk the earth, and take what form they list ! 
Yon devil hath assumed a lung's ! 

BETHLEN. 

Usurp'd it! 

EMERICK. 

The king will play the devil with thee indeed ! 
But that I mean to hear thee howl on the rack, 
I would debase this sword, and lay thee prostrate, 
At this thy paramour's feet ; then drag her forth 
Stain'd vdth adulterous blood, and [Then to Sarolta 
— Mark you, traitress I 
Strumpeted first, then turn'd adrift to beggary ! 
Thou prayed'st for't too. 

SAROLTA. 

Thou art so fiendish wicked, 
That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats. 

BETHLEN 

Lady, be calm ! fear not this king of the buskin ! 
A king ? Oh laughter ! A king Bajazet ! 
That from some vagrant actor's tyring-room. 
Hath stolen at once his speech and crowTi ! 

EMERICK. 

Ah! treason! 
Thou hast been lesson'd and trick'd up for this ! 
As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant 
Shall take the impression of this royal signet, 
So plain thy face hath ta'en the mask of rebel ! 
[Emerick points his hand haughtily towards Beth- 
len, who catching a sight of the signet, seizes 
his hand and eagerly observes the signet, then 
flings the hand back with indignant joy. 

BETHLEN. 

It must be so! 'Tis e'en the counterpart! 

But with a foul usurping cipher on it ! 

The light hath flash'd from Heaven, and I must 

follow it ! 
O curst usurper ! O thou brother-murderer ! 
That madest a star-bright queen a fugitive widow ! 
Who fiU'st the land with curses, being thyself 
All curses in one tyrant ! see and tremble ! 
This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er thee! 
Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point 
125 



116 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shoots lightnings at thee ! Hark ! in Andreas' name, 
Heir of his vengeance ! hell-hound ! I defy thee. 
[They fight, and just as Emerick is disarmed, in 

rush Casimir, Old Bathory, and attendants. 

Casimir runs in between the combatants, and 

parts them : in the struggle Bethlen's sword 

is thrown down. 

CASIMIR. 

The king disarm'd too by a stranger ! Speak ! 
What may this mean ? 

EMERICK. 

Deceived, dishonor'd lord ! 
Ask thou yon fair adultress ! She will tell thee 
A tale, which wouldst thou be both dupe and traitor. 
Thou wilt believe against thy friend and sovereign ! 
Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases : 
To thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs. 
Of half thy vengeance, I perforce must rob thee. 
For that the sovereign claims. To thy allegiance 
I now commit this traitor and assassin. 

[Then to the Attendants 
Hence with him to the dungeon ! and to-morrow, 
Ere the sun rises, — hark ! your heads or his ! 

BETHLEN. 

Can Hell work miracles to mock Heaven's justice ? 

EMERICK. 

Who speaks to him dies ! The traitor that has menaced 
His king, must not pollute the breathing air, 
Even with a word ! 

CASIMIR {to Bathory). 

Hence with him to the dungeon! 
[Exit Bethlen, hurried off by Bathory and 
Attendants. 

EMERICK. 

We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest : 

Thou (Jio Casimir) wilt attend us : and wilt then 

explain 
This sudden and most fortunate arrival. 

[Exit Emerick ; manent Casimir and Sarolta. 

SAROLTA. 

My lord! my husband! look whose sword lies yonder! 
[Pointing to the sword which Bethlen had been 
disarmed of by the Attendants. 
It is Kiuprili's ; Casimir, 'tis thy father's ! 
And wielded by a stripling's arm, it baffled, 
Yea, fell like Heaven's own lightnings on that Tar- 
quin. 

CASIMIR. 

Hush ! hush ! [In an under voice. 

I had detected ere I left the city 
The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damn'd ingrate ! 
For him did I bring down a father's curse ! 
Swift, swift must be our means ! To-morrow's sun 
Sets on his fate or mine ! O blest Sarolta ! 

[Embracing her. 
No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer, 
But that thy spotless virtues may prevail 
O'er Casimir's crimes and dread Kiuprili's curse ! 

[Exeunt consulting. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Glade in a Wood. 

Enter Casimir, looking anxiously around. 

CASIMIR. 

This needs must be the spot ! O, here he comes ! 



Enter Lord Rudolph. 

Well met. Lord Rudolph ! 

Your whisper was not lost upon my ear, 
And I dare trust — 

lord RUDOLPH. 

Enough ! the time is precious ! 
You left Temeswar late on yester-eve ? 
And sojourn'd there some hours ? 



did so ! 



Heard you 



LORD RUDOLPH. 

Aught of a hunt preparing? 

CASIMIR. 

Yes ; and met 
The assembled huntsmen ! 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

Was there no word given? 

CASIMIR. 

The word for me was this ; — The royal Leopard 
Chases thy milk-white dedicated Hind. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

Your answer ? 

CASIMIR. 

As the word proves false or true, 
Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntsmen !^ 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

The event redeem'd their pledge ? 

CASIMIR. 

It did, and therefore 
Have I sent back both pledge and invitation. 
The spotless Hind hath fled to them for shelter, 
And bears with her my seal of fellowship ! 

[They take hands, etc. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

But Emerick ! how when you reported to him 
Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight 
Of Bethlen with his guards ? 

CASIMIR. 

O he received it 
As evidence of their mutual guilt : in fine. 
With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismlss'd 
me. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

I enter'd as the door was closing on you : 

His eye was fix'd, yet seem'd to follow you, 

With such a look of hate, and scorn and triumph, 

As if he had you in the toils already. 

And were then choosing where to stab you first. 

But hush ! draw back ! 

CASIMIR. 

This nook is at the farthest 
From any beaten track. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

There ! mark them ! 
[Points to where Laska and Pestalutz cross 
the Stage. 

CASIMIR. 

I 



LORD RUDOLPH. 

One of the two T recognized this morning ; 
His name is Pestalutz : a trusty ruffian, 
Whose face is prologue still to some dark murdei 
Beware no stratagem, no trick of message. 
Dispart you from your servants. 
CASIMIR {aside). 

I deserve it, 
126 



ZAPOLYA. 



117 



The comrade of that ruffian is my servant; 
The one I trusted most and most preferr'd. 
But we must part. What makes the king so late ? 
It was his wont to be an early stirrer. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

And his main policy 
To enthral the sluggard nature in ourselves 
Is, in good truth, the better half of the secret 
To enthral the world : for the will governs all. 
See, the sky lowers ! the cross-winds way wardly 
Chase the fantastic masses of the clouds 
With a wild mockery of the coming hunt ! 

CASIMIR. 

Mark yonder mass ! I make it wear the shape 
Of a huge ram that butts with head depress'd. 

LORD RUDOLPH {smUing). 
Belike, some stray sheep of the oozy flock, 
Which, if bards lie not, the Sea-shepherds tend, 
Glaucus or Proteus. But my fancy shapes it 
A monster couchant on a rocky shelf. 

CASIMIR. 

Mark too the edges of the lurid mass — 
Restless, as if some idly- vexing Sprite,' 
On swift wing coasting by, with techy hand 
Pluck'd at the ringlets of the vaporous Fleece. 
These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand, 
And elemental war! 

[A single Trumpet heard at a distance. 

LORD RUDOLPH. 

That single blast 
Announces that the tyrant's pawing courser 
Neighs at the gate [A volley of Trumpets. 

Hark ! now the king comes forth ! 
For ever midst this crash of horns and clarions 
He mounts his steed, which proudly rears an-end 
While he looks round at ease, and scans the crowd, 
Vain of his stately form and horsemanship ! 
I must away ! my absence may be noticed. 

CASIMIR. 

Oft as thou canst, essay to lead the hunt 
Hard by the forest skirts ; and ere high noon 
Expect our sworn confederates from Temeswar. 
I trust, ere yet this clouded sun slopes westward, 
That Emerick's death, or Casimir's, will appease 
The manes of Zapolya and Kiuprili ! 

[Exit Rudolph and manet Casimir. 

The traitor, Laska! 

And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced. 

Could see him as he was, and often warn'd me. 

Whence learn'd she this ? — O she was innocent ! 

And to be innocent is nature's wisdom ! 

The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air, 

Fear'd soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter. 

And the young steed recoils upon his haunches, 

The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard. 

O surer than Suspicion's hundred eyes 

Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart, 

By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness. 

Reveals the approach of evil. Casimir ! 

O fool ! O parricide ! through yon wood didst thou. 

With fire and sword, pursue a patriot father, 

A widow and an orphan. Darest thou then 

(Curse-laden wretch), put forth these hands to raise 

The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause ? 

Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili ; 

And let this deep abhorrence of his crime, 



Unstain'd with selfish fears, be his atonement ! 

strengthen him to nobler compensation 
In the deliverance of his bleeding country ! 

[Eodt Casimir. 

Scene changes to the mouth of a Cavern, as in Act 11. 
Zapolya and Glycine discovered. 

zapolya. 
Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave. 
Do not then leave me long alone. Glycine ! 
Having enjoy'd thy commune, loneliness, 
That but oppress'd me hitherto, now scares. 

GLYCINE. 

1 shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance, 
And the same moment I descry him, lady, 

I will return to you. [Exit Glycine. 

Enter Old Bathory, speaking as he enters. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Who hears ? A friend ! 
A messenger from him who bears the signet ! 

[Zapolya, who had been gazing affectionately after 
Glycine, starts at Bathory's voice. 
He hath the watch- word ! — Art thou not Bathory ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

noble lady ! greetings from your son ! 

[Bathory kneels. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Rise ! rise ! Or shall I rather kneel beside thee. 
And call down blessings from the wealth of Heaven 
Upon thy honor'd head ? When thou last saw'st me 

1 would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not, 
Thou dear old man ! How oft since then in dreams 
Have I done worship to thee, as an angel 
Bearing my helpless babe upon thy wings ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

O he was born to honor ! Gallant deeds 
And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve. 
Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted 
A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither — 

ZAPOLYA. 

Lady Sarolta mean'st thou? 

OLD BATHORY. 

She is safe. 
The royal brute hath overleapt his prey. 
And when he turn'd, a sworded Virtue faced him. 
My own brave boy — O pardon, noble lady ! 
Your son 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hark ! Is it he ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

I hear a voice 
Too hoarse for Bethlen's! 'T was his scheme and hope, 
Long ere the hunters could approach the forest, 
To have led you hence.— Retire. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O life of terrors ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

In the cave's mouth we have such 'vantage-ground 
That even this old arm — 

[Exeunt Zapolya and Bathory into the Cave. 

Enter Laska and Pestalutz. 

LASKA. 

Not a step further! 
pestalutz. 
Dastard ! was this your promise to the king ? 

127 



118 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LASKA. 

I have fulfiU'd his orders ; have walk'd with you 
As with a friend ; have pointed out Lord Casimir : 
And now I leave you to take care of him. 
For the king's purposes are doubtless friendly. 

PESTALUTZ (affecting to start). 
Be on your guard, man ! 

LASKA (in affright). 

Ha ! what now ? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Behind you 
'Twas one of Satan's imps, that grinn'd, and threat- 

en'd you 
For your most impudent hope to cheat his master ! 

LASKA. 

Pshaw! What, you think 'tis fear that makes me 
leave you ? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Is't not enough to play the knave to others, 
But thou must lie to thine own heart ? 

LASKA (pompously). 
Friend ! Laska will be found at his own post, 
Watching elsewhere for the king's interest. 
There 's a rank plot that Laska must hunt down, 
'Twixt Bethlen and Glycine ! 

PESTALUTZ (with a sneer). 

What ! the girl 
Whom Laska saw the war- wolf tear in pieces ? 
LASKA (throwing down a bow and arrows). 
Well ! there 's my arms ! Hark ! should your javehn 

fail you, 
These points are tipt with venom. 

[Starts and sees Glycine without. 
By Heaven! Glycine! 
Now, as you love the king, help me to seize her ! 
[They run out a/ter Glycine, and she shrieks with- 
out : then enter Bathory from the Cavern. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Rest, lady, rest ! I feel in every sinew 

A young man's strength returning ! Which way went 

they ? 
The shriek came thence. 

[Clash of swords, ancZ Bethlen's voice heard from 
behind the Scenes ; Glycine enters alarmed 
then, as seeing Laska's bow and arrows. 

GLYCINE. 

Ha ! weapons here ? Then, Bethlen, thy Glycine 

Will die with thee or save thee ! 

[She seizes them and rushes out. BxraoRY following 
her. Lively and irregular Music, and Peasants 
with hunting-spears cross the stage, singing cho- 
rally. 

CHORAL SONG. 
Up, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay ! 
To the meadows trip away. 
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn. 
And scare the small birds from the com. 
Not a soul at home may stay : ^ 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse : 



Find grannam out a sunny seat. 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 
For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 
Re-enter, as the Huntsmen pass off, Bathory, Bethlen 
and Glycine. 
GLYCINE (leaning on Bethlen). 
And now once more a woman 

bethlen. 

Was it then 
That timid eye, was it those maiden hands 
That sped the shaft which saved me and avenged me? 

OLD bathory (to Bethlen exultingly). 
'Twas a vision blazon'd on a cloud 
By lightning, shaped into a passionate scheme 
Of life and death ! I saw the traitor, Laska, ^ 

Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade ; 
The point was at your back, when her shaft reach'd 

him 
The coward tum'd, and at the self-same instant 
The braver villain fell beneath your sword. 

Enter Zapolya. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Bethlen ! my child ! and safe too ! 
bethlen. 

Mother! Queen! 
Royal Zapolya ! name me Andreas ! 
Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet ' 

Hath made his own arm, minister of his justice. 
So do the Gods who lanch the thunderbolt! 

ZAPOLYA. 

O Raab KiupriH ! Friend! Protector! Guide! 
In vain we trench'd the altar round with waters, 
A flash from Heaven hath touch 'd the hidden incense— 

bethlen (hastily). 
And that majestic form that stood beside thee 
Was Raab Kiuprih ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

It was Raab Kiuprili ; 
As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king. 

OLD bathory. 
Hail Andreas! hail my king ! [Triumphantly, 

ANDREAS. 

Stop, thou revered one ! 
Lest we oflfend the jealous destinies 
By shouts ere victory. Deem it then thy duty 
To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it 

GLYCINE. 

Accept thine hand-maid's service ! [Kneeling 

ZAPOLYA 

Raise her, son ! 

raise her to thine arms ! she saved thy life, 

And through her love for thee, she saved thy mother's! 
Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid 
Hath other and hereditary claims 
Upon thy heart, and with Heaven-guarded instinct 
But carried on the work her sire began ! 

ANDREAS. 

Dear maid ! more dear thou canst not be ! the rest 
Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence ; 
For as I reach'd the skirts of this high forest, 

1 heard the noise and uproar of the chase. 
Doubling its echoes from the mountain foot. 

128 



ZAPOLYA. 



119 



GLYCINE. 

Hark ! sure the hunt approaches. 

[Horn without, and afterwards distant thunder. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O Kiuprili! 

OLD BATHORY. 

The demon-hunters of the middle air 
Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy fire 
The guilty ! Hark ! now here, now there, a horn 
Swells singly with irregular blast ! the tempest 
Has scatter'd them ! 

[Horns heard as from different places at a distance. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O Heavens! where stays Kiuprili? 

j OLD BATHORY. 

The wood will be surrounded I leave me here. 

ANDREAS. 

My mother ! let me see thee once in safety, 
I too will hasten back, with lightning's speed, 
To seek the hero ! 

OLD BATHORY. 

Haste ! my life upon it, 
I'll guide him safe. 

ANDREAS {thunder again). 

Ha ! what a crash was there ! 
Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal 

[Pointing without to the body of Pestalutz. 
Than yon vile subaltern. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Your behest, High Powers, 
Low I obey ! to the appointed spirit. 
That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavern. 
In fervent faith, Kiuprili, I intrust thee ! 

[Exeunt Zapolya, Andreas, and Glycine, 
Andreas having in haste dropt his sword. 
Manet Bathory. 

OLD BATHORY. 

You bleeding corse, {pointing to Pestalutz's body) 

may work us mischief still : 
Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt 
From all parts towards this spot Stript of its armor, 
I'll drag it hither. 

[Exit Bathory. After a while several Hunters 
cross the stage as scattered. Some time after, 
enter Kiuprili in his disguise, fainting with 
fatigue, and as pursued. 
RAAB kiuprili {throwing off his disguise). 
Since Heaven alone can save me. Heaven alone 
Shall be my trust. 

[Then speaking as to Zapolya in the Cavern. 
Haste ! haste ! Zapolya, flee ! 
[He enters the Cavern, and then returns in alarm. 
Gone ! Seized perhaps ? Oh no, let me not perish 
Despairing of Heaven's justice ! Faint, disarm'd, 
Each siiiew powerless, senseless rock sustain me ! 
Thou art parcel of my native land. 

[Then observing the sword. 
A sword ! 
Ha ! and my sword ! Zapolya hath escaped, 
The murderers are baffled, and there hves 
An Andreas to avenge Kiuprili's fall ! — 
There was a time, when this dear sword did flash 
As dreadful as the storm-fire from mine arms : 
I can scarce raise it now — yet come, fell tyrant ! 
And bring with thee my shame and bitter anguish. 
To end his work and thine ! Kiuprili now 
Can take the death-blow as a soldier should. 
R 



Re-enter Bathory, vdth the dead body of Pestalutz. 

OLD BATHORY. 

Poor tool and victim of another's guilt ! 
Thou foUow'st heavily : a reluctant weight ! 
Good truth, it is an undeserved honor 
That in Zapolya and Kiuprili's cave 
A wretch like thee should find a burial-place. 

[Then observing KiuPRiLi. 
'Tis he! — in Andreas' and Zapolya's name 
Follow me, reverend form ? Thou neecist not speak, 
For thou canst be no other than Kiuprih ! 

KIUPRILL 

And are they safe ? [Noise without. 

OLD BATHORY, 

Conceal yourself, my Lord . 
I will mislead them ! 

KIUPRILL 

Is Zapolya safe ? 

OLD BATHORY. 

I doubt it not ; but haste, haste, I conjure you ! 

[As he retires, in rushes Casimir. 
CASIMIR {entering). 

Monster ! 
Thou shalt not now escape me ! 



OLD BATHORY. 



It is no monster. 



Stop, Lord Casimir ! 



CASIMIR. 

Art thou too a traitor ? 
Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk ? 
Say where is he that, trick'd in this disguise. 
First lured me on, then scared my dastard followers? 
Thou must have seen him. Say where is th' assassin? 
OLD BATHORY {pointing to the body of Pestalutz). 
There lies the assassin ! slain by that same sword 
That was descending on his curst employer. 
When entering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued ! 

CASIMIR. 

Strange providence ! what then was he who fled me? 
[Bathory points to the Cavern, whence Kiuprili 



Thy looks speak fearful things ! Whither, old man ! 
Would thy hand point me ? 

OLD bathory. 

Casimir, to thy father. 
CASIMIR {discovering Kiuprili). 
The curse! the curse! Open and swallow me, 
Unsteady earth ! Fall, dizzy rocks ! and hide me ! 

OLD BATHORY {tO KlUPRILl). 

Speak, speak, my Lord ! 

KIUPRILI (holds out tlie sword io Bathory). 
Bid him fulfil his work ! 

CASIMIR. 

Thou art Heaven's immediate minister, dread spiril ! 
O for sweet mercy, take some other form, 
And ^ve m& from perdition and despair ! 

OLD bathory. 
He lives ! 

CASIMIR. 

Lives ! A father's curse can never die ! 
KIUPRILI {in a tone of pity). 
Casimir ! Casimir ! 

OLD bathory. 

Look ! he doth forgive you ! 
Hark! 'tis the tyrant's voice. 

[Emerick's voice without 
129 



120 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CASIMIR. 

I kneel, I kneel ! 
Retract thy curse ! O, by my mother's ashes, 
Have pity on thy self-abhorring child ! 
If not for me, yet for my innocent wife, 
Yet for my country's sake, give ray arm strength. 
Permitting me again to call thee father ! 

KIUPRILI. 

Son, I forgive thee ! Take thy father's sword ; 
When thou shalt lift it in thy country's cause, 
In that same instant doth thy father bless thee ! 

[KiUPRiLi and Casimir embrace ; they all retire 
to the Cavern supporting Kiuprili. Casimir 
as by accident drops his robe, and Bathory 
throws it over the body of Pestalutz. . 
EMERicK (entering). 
Fools! Cowards! follow — or by Hell I '11 make you 
Find reason to fear Emerick, more than all 
The mummer-fiends that ever masqueraded 
As gods or wood-nymphs ! — 

Then sees the body of Pestalutz, covered by 
Casimir's cloaJi. 

Ha! 'tis done then! 
Our necessary villain hath proved faithful. 
And there lies Casimir, and our last fears ! 

Well!— Ay, well! 

And is it not well ? For though grafted on us. 
And fill'd too with our sap, the deadly power 
Of the parent poison-tree lurk'd in its fibres : 
There was too much of Raab Kiuprih in him: 
The old enemy look'd at me in his face. 
E'en when his words did flatter me with duty. 

[As Emerick moves towards the body, enter from 
the Cavern Casimir and Bathory. 

OLD BATHORY (pointing to where the noise is, and aside 

to Casimir). 
This way they come ! 

casimir (aside to Bathory). 

Hold them in check awhile. 
The path is narrow ! Rudolph will assist thee. 

emerick (aside, not perceiving Casimir and Bathory, 

and looJcing at the dead body). 
And ere I ring the alarum of my sorrow, 
I '11 scan that face once more, and murmur — Here 
Lies Casimir, the last of the Kiuprilis ! 

\Uncovers the face, and starts. 
Hell! 'tis Pestalutz! 

casimir (coming forward). 

Yes, thou ingrate Emerick ! 
'Tis Pestalutz! 'tis thy trusty murderer! 
To quell thee more, see Raab Kiu prill's sword ! 

emerick. 
Curses on it, and thee ! Think'st thou that petty omen 
Dare whisper fear to Emerick's destiny ? 
Ho ! Treason ! Treason ! 

casimir. 

Then have at thee, tyrant! 
[They fight. Emerick /aZZs. 

EMERICK. 

Betray'd and baffled 

By mine own tool ! Oh ! [Dies. 

CASIMIR (triumphantly). 

Hear, hear, my father! 
Thou shouldst have vdtness'd thine own deed. O 

father ! 
Wake from that envious swoon! The tyrant's fallen ! 
Thy sword hath conquer'd ! As I Hfted it, 



Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me ; 
Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from me 
And lighted on the tyrant f 

Enter Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants. 

RUDOLPH and bathory (entering). 

Friends! friends to Casimir! 

CASIMIR. 

Rejoice, Illyrians ! the usurper's fallen. 

RUDOLPH. 

So perish tyrants ! so end usurpation ! 

CASIMIR. 

Bear hence the body, and move slowly on ! 

One moment 

Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness, 
I follow you, and we will greet our countrymen 
With the two best and fullest gifts of Heaven — 
A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored ! 

[Exeunt Casimir into the Cavern. The rest on 
the opposite side. 

Scene changes to a splendid Chamber in Casimir's 
Castle. Confederates discovered. 

first confederate. 
It cannot but succeed, friends. From this palace 
E'en to the wood, our messengers are posted 
With such short interspace, that fast as sound 
Can travel to us, we shall learn the event ! 

Enter another Confederate. 
What tidings from Temeswar? 

second confederate. 

With one voice 
Th' assembled chieftains have deposed the tyrant ; 
He is proclaim'd the public enemy, 
And the protection of the law withdrawn. 

FIRST confederate. 

Just doom for him, who governs vdthout law ! 
Is it known on whom the sov'reignty will fall ? 

second confederate. 
Nothing is yet decided : but report 
Points to Lord Casimir. The grateful memory 
Of his renowned father 

Enter Sarolta. 

Hail to Sarolta. 
sarolta. 
Confederate friends ! I bring to you a joy 
Worthy our noble cause ! Kiuprili lives, 
And from his obscure exile, hath retum'd 
To bless our country. More and greater tidings 
Might I disclose ; but that a woman's voice 
Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him 
The partner of the glory — Raab Kiuprili ; 
For he alone is worthy to aimounce it. 

[Shouts of " Kiuprih, Kiuprih !" and " The Tyrant 'a 
fallen !" without. Then enter Kiuprili, Casimir, 
Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants, after the 
clamor has subsided. 

RAAB KIUPRILL 

Spare yet your joy, my friends ! A higher waits you: 
Behold your Queen ! 

Enter from, opposite side, Zapolya and Andreas 
royally attired, with Glycine, 
confederates. 
Comes she from heaven to bless us * 
130 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



121 



OTHER CONFEDERATES. 

It is! It is! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven's work of grace is full ! 
Kiuprili, thou art safe! 

RAAB KIUPRILI. 

Royal Zapolya ! 
To the heavenly powers, pay we our duty first ; 
Who not alone preserved thee, but for thee 
And for our country, the one precious branch 
Of Andreas' royal house. O countrymen, 
Behold your King ! And thank our country's genius, 
That the same means which have preserved our 

sovereign. 
Have likewise rear'd him worthier of the throne 
By virtue than by birth. The undoubted proofs 
Pledged by his royal mother, and this old man 
(Whose name henceforth be dear to all Illyrians), 
We haste to lay before the assembled council. 

ALL. 

Hail, Andreas ! Hail, Illyria's rightful king ! 

Andreas; 
Supported thus, O friends! 'twere cowardice 
Unworthy of a royal birth, to shrink 
From the appointed charge. Yet, while we wait 
The awful sanction of convened Illyria, 
In this brief while, O let me feel myself 
The child, the friend, the debtor .'—Heroic mother! — 
But what can breath add to that sacred name ? 
Kiuprili! gift of Providence, to teach us 
That loyalty is but the public form 
Of the sublimest friendship, let my youth 
Climb round thee, as the vine around its elm : 
Thou my support, and I thy faithful fruitage. 
My heart is full, and these poor words express not 
They are but an art to check its over-swelling. 
Bathory ! shrink not from my filial arms ! 
Now, and from henceforth, thou shalt not forbid me 
To call thee father ! And dare I forget 



The powerful intercession of thy virtue, 
Lady Sarolta ? Still acknowledge me 
Thy faithful soldier!— But what invocation 
Shall my full soul address to thee. Glycine ? 
Thou sword, that leap'st from forth a bed of 
Thou falcon-hearted dove ? 



ZAPOLYA. 

Hear that from me, son ! 
For ere she lived, her father saved thy life, 
Thine, and thy fugitive mother's ! 

CASIMIR. 

Chef Ragozzi ! 

shame upon my head ! I would have given her 
To a base slave ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven overruled thy purpose, 
And sent an angel (Pointing to Sarolta) to thy house 

to guard her ! 
Thou precious bark! freighted with all our treasures ! 

[To Andreas. 
The sport of tempests, and yet ne'er the victim. 
How many may claim salvage in thee ! 

(Pointing to Glycine). Take her, son ! 
A queen that brings with her a richer dowry 
Than orient kings can give ! 

sarolta. 

A banquet waits ! — • 
On this auspicious day, for some few hours 

1 claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful 
With flashing light, force wisdom on us all ! 
E'en women at the distaff hence may see. 
That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be free ; 
May whisper, when the waves of faction foam. 
None love their country, but who love their home ; 
For freedom can with those alone abide. 

Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride, 
Of love and duty, at their own fire-side : 
While mad ambition ever doth caress 
Its own sure fate, in its own restlessness ! 



A DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 



PREFACE. 



It was my intention to have prefixed a Life of Wal- 
lenstein to this translation; but I found that it must 
either have occupied a space wholly disproportionate 
to the nature of the publication, or have been merely 
a meagre catalogue of events narrated not more 
fully than they already are in the Play itself The 
recent translation, likewise, of Schiller's History of 
the Thirty Years' War diminished the motives tliereto. 



In the translation I endeavored to ;render my Author 
literally wherever I was not prevented by absolute 
differences of idiom ; but I am conscious, that in two 
or three short passages I have been guilty of dilating 
the original ; and, from anxiety to give the full 
meaning, have weakened the force. In the metre I 
have availed myself of no other liberties than those 
which Schiller had permitted to himself, except the 
occasional breaking-up of the line by the substitu- 
tion of a trochee for an iambic ; of which liberty, so 
frequent in our tragedies, I find no instance in these 
dramas. 

S. T. Coleridge 
131 



122 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE PICCOLOMINI, ETC. 

ACT L 

SCENE I. 

An old Gothic Chamber in the Council-House at Pilsen, 
decorated with Colors and other War Insignia. 

Illo with Butler and Isolani. 

ILLO. 

Ye have come late — but ye are come ! The distance, 
Count Isolan, excuses your delay. 

ISOLANI. 

Add this too, that we come not empty-handed. 
At Donauwert* it was reported to us, 
A Swedish caravan was on its way 
Transporting a rich cargo of provision, 
Almost six hundred wagons. This my Croats 
Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize ! — 
We bring it hither 

ILLO. 

Just in time to banquet 
The illustrious company assembled here. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis all alive ! a stirring scene here ! 



ISOLANI. 



Ay! 



The very churches are all full of soldiers. 

[Casts his eye around. 
And in the Council-house too, I observe, 
You're settled, quite at home! Well, well! we soldiers 
Must shift and suit us in what way we can. 

ILLO. 

We have the colonels here of thirty regiments. 
You'll find Count Tertsky here, and Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam, 

The Piccolomini, both son and father 

You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting 
From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only 
Galas is wanting still, and Altringer. 

BUTLER. 

EUcpect not Galas. 

ILLO (hesitating). 
How so ? Do you know 

ISOLANI (interrupting him). 
Max. Piccolomini here ? — O bring me to him. 
I see him yet ('tis now ten years ago, 
We were engaged with Mansfeld hard by Dessau), 
I see the youth, in my mind's eye I see him. 
Leap his black war-horse from the bridge adown, 
And t'ward his father, then in extreme peril, 
Beat up against the strong tide of the Elbe. 
The down was scarce upon his chin! I hear 
He has made good the promise of his youth, 
And the full hero now is finish'd in him. 

ILLO. 

You'll see him yet ere evening. He conducts 
The Duchess Friedland hither, and the Princesst 
From Carnthen. We expect them here at noon. 



* A town about 12 German miles N. E. of Ulm. 
t The dukes in Germany being always reigning powers, their 
eons and daughters are entitled Princes and Princesses. 



BUTLER. 

Both wife and daughter does the Duke call hither ? 
He crowds in visitants from all sides. 

ISOLANI. 

Hm! 

So much the better ! I had framed my mind 
To hear of naught, but warlike circumstance, 
Of marches, and attacks, and batteries : 
And lo ! the Duke provides, that something too 
Of gentler sort, and lovely, should be present 
To feast our eyesi 

ILLO (who has been standing in the attitude of medi 

tation, to Butler, whom he leads a little on one 

side). 
And how came you to know 
That the Coiuit Galas joins us not ? 



He importuned me to remain behind. 

ILLO (with warmth). 
And you ?-^You hold out firmly ? 

[Grasping his hand with affection. 
Noble Butler! 

BUTLER. 

After the obligation which the Duke 
Had laid so newly on me • 

ILLO. 

I had forgotten 
A pleasant duty—- Major-General, 
I wish you joy ! 

ISOLANI. 

What, you mean, of his regiment f 
I hear, too, that to make the gift still sweeter, 
The Duke has given him the very same 
In which he first saw service, and since then, 
Work'd himself, step by step, through each preferment, 
From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives 
A precedent of hope, a spur of action 
To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance 
An old deserving soldier makes his way. 

BUTLER. 

I am perplex'd and doubtful, whether or no 

I dare accept this your congratulation. 

The Emperor has not yet corJirra'd the appointment 

ISOLANI. 

Seize it, friend ! Seize it ! The hand which in thaf 

post 
Placed you, is strong enough to keep you there, 
Spite of the Emperor and his Ministers ? 

ILLO. 

Ay, if we would but so consider it ! — 

If we would all of us consider it so ! 

The Emperor gives us nothing ; from the Duke 

Comes all — whate'er we hope, whate'er we have 

ISOLANI (to Illo). 
My noble brother ! did I tell you how 
The Duke will satisfy my creditors ? 
Will be himself my banker for the future, 
Make me once more a creditable man ! — 
And this is now the third time, think of that ! 
This kingly-minded man has rescued me 
From absolute ruin, and restored my honor. 

ILLO. 

O that his power but kept pace with his wishes ! 
Why, friend! he'd give the whole world to his 

soldiers. 
But at Vienna, brother ! — here 's the grievance ! — 
What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten 
132 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



123 



His arm, and where they can, to clip his pinions. 
Then these new dainty requisitions ! these, 
Which this sAme Questenberg brings hither ! — 

BUTLER. 

Ay! 
These requisitions of the Emperor, — 
I too have heard about them ; but I hope 
The Duke will not draw back a single inch ! 

ILLO. 

Not from his right most surely, unless first 
— From office ! 

BUTLER {shocked and confused). 
Know you augU then ? You alarm me. 
isoLANi {at the same time with Butler, and in a hur- 
rying voice). 
We should be ruin'd, every one of us ! 

ILLO. 

No more ! 
Yonder I see our worthy friend* approaching 
With the Lieutenant General, Piccolomini. 

butler {shaking his head significantly). 
I fear we shall not go hence as we came. 



SCENE II. 
Erder Octavio Piccolomini and Questenberg. 
OCT AVID {still in the distance). 
Ay, ay ! more still ! Still more new visitors ! 
Acknowledge, friend ! that never was a camp, 
Which held at once so many heads of heroes. 

[Approaching nearer. 
Welcome, Count Isolani ! 

ISOLANL 

My noble brother, 
Even now am I arrived ; it had been else my duty — 

OCTAVIO. 

And Colonel Butler — trust me, I rejoice 

Thus to renew acquaintance with a man 

Whose worth and services I know and honor. 

See, see, my friend ! 

There might we place at once before our eyes 

The sum of war's whole trade and mystery — 

[To Questenberg, presenting Butler arid Isolani 

at the same time to him. 
These two the total sum — Strength and Dispatch. 

questenbekg {to OcTAVIO). 
And lo ! betwixt them both, experienced Prudence ! 
OCTAVIO {presenting Questenberg to Butler and 

Isolani). 
The Chamberlain and War-commissioner Questen- 
berg, 
The bearer of the Emperor's behests. 
The long-tried friend and patron of all soldiers, 
We honor in this noble visitor. [ Universal silence. 

ILLO {moving towards Questenberg). 
'Tis not the first time, noble Minister, 
You have shown our camp this honor. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Once before, 
I stood before these colors. 

ILLO. 

Perchance too you remember where that was. 
It was at Zna,imt in Moravia, where 



* Spoken with a sneer. 

t A town not far from the Mine-Mountains, on the high i 
from Vienna to Prague. 



You did present yourself upon the part 
Of the Emperor, to supplicate our Duke 
That he would straight assume the chief command. 

QUESTENBERG. 

To supplicate? Nay, noble General ! 

So far extended neither my commission 

(At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal. 

ILLO. 

Well, well, then — to compel him, if you choose. 
I can remember me right well. Count Tilly 
Had suffer'd total rout upon the Lech. 
Bavaria lay all open to the enemy, 
Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing 
Onwards into the very heart of Austria. 
At that time you and Werdenberg appear'd 
Before our General, storming him with prayers, 
And menacing the Emperor's displeasure. 
Unless he took compassion on this wretchedness. 

ISOLANI {steps up to them). 
Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible enough. 
Wherefore with your commission of to-day 
You were not all too willing to remember 
Your former one. 

QUESTENBERG. 

WTiy not, Count Isolan ? 
No contradiction sure exists between them. 
It was the urgent business of that time 
To snatch Bavaria from her enemy's hand ; 
And my commission of to-day instructs me 
To free her from her good friends and protectors. 

ILLO. 

A worthy office ! After with our blood 

We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon^ 

To be swept out of it is all our thanks, 

The sole reward of all our hard-won victories. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Unless that wretched land be doomed to suffer 

Only a change of evils, it must be 

Freed from the scourge alike of friend and foe. 

ILLO. 

What ? 'T was a favorable year ; the boors 
Can answer fresh demands already. 



QUESTENBERG. 



Nay, 



If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds — 

ISOLANI. 

The war maintains the war. Are the boors ruin'd. 
The Emperor gains so many more new soldiers. 

QUESTENBERG. 

And is the poorer by even so many subjects. 

ISOLANI. 

Poh ! We are all his subjects. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yet with a difference, General ! The one fills 

With profitable industry the purse. 

The others are well skill'd to empty it. 

The sword has made the Emperor poor ; the plow 

Must reinvigorate his resources. 

ISOLANL 

Sure! 
Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see 

[Examining with his eye the dress and ornamenta 
of Questenberg. 
Good store of gold that still remains uncoin'd. 

133 



124 



COLERIBGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



QUESTENBERG. 

Thank Heaven ! that means have been found out to 

hide 
Some little from the fingers of the Croats. 

ILLO. 

There ! The Stawata and the Martinitz, 

On whom the Emperor heaps his gifts and graces, 

To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians — 

Those minions of court favor, those court harpies, 

Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens 

Driven from their house and home — who reap no 

harvests 
Save in the general calamity — 
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock 
The desolation of their country — these, 
Let these, and such as these, support the war, 
The fatal war, which they alone enkindled ! 

BUTLER. 

And those state-parasites, who have their feet 
So constantly beneath the Emperor's table. 
Who cannot let a benefice fall, but they 
Snap at it with dog's hunger— they, forsooth, 
Would pare the soldier's bread, and cross his reckon- 
ing! 

ISOLANI. 

My life long will it anger me to think. 
How when I went to court seven years ago, 
To see about new horses for our regiment. 
How from one antechamber to another 
They dragg'd me on, and left me by the hour 
To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering 
Feast-fatlen'd slaves, as if I had come thither 
A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favor 
That fall beneath their tables. And, at last, 
Whom should they send me but a Capuchin ! 
Straight I began to muster up my sins 
For absolution — but no such luck for me ! 
This was the man, this capuchin, with whom 
I was to treat concerning the army horses : 
And I was forced at last to quit the field, 
The business unaccomplish'd. Afterwards 
The Duke procured me, in three days, what I 
Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna. 

aUESTENBERG. 

Yes, yes ! your travelling bills soon found their way 

to us: 
Too well I know we have still accounts to settle. 

ILLO. 

War is a violent trade ; one cannot always 

Finish one's work by soft means ; every trifle 

Must not be blacken'd into sacrilege. 

If we should wait till you, in solemn council, 

With due deliberation had selected 

The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils, 

I' faith we should wait long. — 

"Dash! and through with it!" — ^That's the better 

watchword. 
Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature 
To make the best of a bad thing once past, 
A bitter and perplex'd " what shall I do ?" 
Is worse to man than worst necessity. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ay, doubtless, it is true : the Duke does spare us 
The troublesome task of choosing. 

BUTLER. 

Yes, the Duke 
Cares with a father's feelings for his troops ; 
But how the Emperor feels for us, we see. 



QUESTENBERG. 

His cares and feelings all ranks share alike, 
Nor will he offer one up to another. 

ISOLANI. 

And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts 
As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve 
His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home. 

QUESTENBERG {with a sneer). 
Count ! this comparison you make, not I. 

BUTLER. 

Why, were we all the court supposes us, 
'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty 

QUESTENBERG. 

You have taken liberty — it was not given you. 

And therefore it becomes an urgent duty 

To rein it in with curbs. 

ocTAVio {interposing and addressing Questenberg). 

My noble friend. 
This is no more than a remembrancing 
That you are now in camp, and among warriors. 
The soldier's boldness constitutes his freedom. 
Could he act daringly, unless he dared 
Talk even so ? One runs into the other. 
The boldness of this worthy officer, 

[Pointing to Butler. 
Which now has but mistaken in its mark, 
Preserved, when naught but boldness could preserve 

it. 
To the Emperor his capital city, Prague, 
In a most formidable mutiny 

Of the whole garrison. [Military music at a distance. 
Hah ! here they come ' 

ILLO. 

The sentries are saluting them : this signal 
Announces the arrival of the Duchess. 

OCTAVIO {to Questenberg). 
Then my son Max. too has returned. 'T was he 
Fetch'd and attended them from Carnthen hither. 

ISOLANI {to Illo). 
Shall we not go in company to greet them ? 

ILLO. 

Well, let us go. — Ho ! Colonel Butler, come. 

[To OCTAVIO- 

You '11 not forget, that yet ere noon we meet 
The noble Envoy at the General's palace. 

[Exeunt all hut Questenberg and Octavio. 



SCENE III. 
Questenberg and Octavio. 
questenberg {vyith signs of aversion and astonishment). 
What have I not been forced to hear, Octavio ! 
What sentiments ! what fierce, uncurb'd defiance ! 
And were this spirit universal — 

OCTAVIO. 

Hm! 

You are now acquainted with three-fourths of the 
army. 

questenberg. 
Where must we seek then for a second host 
To have the custody of this ? That Illo 
Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then 
This Butler too — he cannot even conceal 
The passionate workings of his ill intentions. 

OCTAVIO. 

Quickness of temper-— irritated pride ; 
'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up Butl r 
134 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



125 



I know a spell that will soon dispossess 
The e\il spirit in him. 

QUESTENBERG {walking Up and down in evident disquiet.) 

Friend, friend ! 
O ! this is worse, far worse, than we had suffer'd 
Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There 
We saw it only with a courtier's eyes, 
Eyes dazzled by the splendor of the throne. 
We had not seen the War-chief, the Commander, 
The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here, 
'Tis quite another thing. 

Here is no Emperor more — the Duke is Emperor. 
Alas, my friend ! alas, my noble friend ! 
This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp 
Strikes my hopes prostrate. 

OCTAVIO. 

Now you see yourself 
Of what a perilous kind the office is. 
Which you deliver to me from the Court. 
The least suspicion of the General 
Costs me my freedom and my life, and would 
But hasten his most desperate enterprise. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted 
This madman with the sword, and placed such power 
In such a hand ? I tell you, he '11 refuse. 
Flatly refuse to obey the Imperial orders. 
Friend, he can do 't, and what he can, he will. 
And then the impunity of his defiance — 
Oh ! what a proclamation of our weakness ! 

OCTAVIO. 

D' ye think too, he has brought his wife and daughter 

Without a purpose hither ? Here in camp ! 

And at the very point of time, in which 

We 're arming for the war ? That he has taken 

These, the last pledges of his loyalty. 

Away from out the Emperor's domains — 

This is no doubtful token of the nearness 

Of some eruption ! 

aUESTENBERG. 

How shall we hold footing 
Beneath this tempest, which collects itself 
And threats us from all quarters ? The enemy 
Of the empire on our borders, now already 
Tlie master of the Danube, and still farther, 
And farther still, extending every hour ! 
In our interior the alarum-bells 
Of insurrection — peasantry in arms — 
All orders discontented — and the army. 
Just in the moment of our expectation 
Of aidance from it — lo ! this very army 
Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline, 
Loosen'd, and rent asunder from the state 
And from their sovereign, the blind instrument 
Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon 
Of fearful power, which at his will he wields ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay, nay, friend ! let us not despair too soon. 
Men's words are ever bolder than their deeds : 
And many a resolute, who now appears 
Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden 
Find in his breast a heart he wot not of. 
Let but a single honest man speak out 
The true name of his crime ! Remember too, 
We stand not yet so wholly unprotected. 
Counts Altringer and Galas have maintain'd 



Their little army faithful to its duty. 

And daily it becomes more numerous. 

Nor can he take us by surprise : you know 

I hold him all encompass'd by my listeners. 

Whate'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing — 

No step so small, but instantly I hear it ; 

Yea, his own mouth discloses it. 

QUESTENBERG. ' 

'Tis quite 
Incomprehensible, that he detects not 
The foe so near ! 



Beware, you do not think. 
That I, by lying arts, and complaisant 
Hypocrisy, have skulked into his graces : 
Or with the substance of smooth professions 
Nourish his all-confiding friendship ! No — 
Compell'd alike by prudence, and that duty 
Which we all owe our country, and our sovereign. 
To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet 
Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

It is the visible ordinance of Heaven. 

OCTAVIO. 

I know not what it is that so attracts 

And links him both to me and to my son. 

Comrades and friends we always were — long habit. 

Adventurous deeds perform'd in company, 

And all those many and various incidents 

Which store a soldier's memory with affections, 

Had bound us long and early to each other — 

Yet I can name the day, when all at once 

His heart rose on me, and his confidence 

Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning 

Before the memorable fight at Lutzner. 

Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out. 

To press him to accept another charger. 

At distance from the tents, beneath a tree, 

I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him 

And had related all my bodings to him, 

Long time he stared upon me, hke a man 

Astounded ; thereon fell upon my neck. 

And manifested to me an emotion 

That far outstripp'd the worth of that small service. 

Since then his confidence has follow'd me 

With the same pace that mine has fled from him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

You lead your son into the secret ? 



OCTAVIO. 



No! 



QUESTENBERG. 

What ! and not warn him either what bad hands 
His lot has placed him in ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I must perforce 
Leave him in wardship to his innocence. 
His young and open soul — dissimulation 
Is foreign to its habits ! Ignorance 
Alone can keep alive the cheerful air, 
The unembarrass'd sense and light free spirit. 
That make the Duke secure. 

QUESTENBERG (amdously). 
My honor'd friend ! most highly do I deem 

Of Colonel Piccolomini — yet — if 

little 

135 



126 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OCTAVIO. 

I must venture it. 
Hush ! — ^There he comes ! 



SCENE IV. 



Max. Piccolomini, Octavio Piccolomini, 

questenberg. 

MAX. 

Ha ! there he is himself. Welcome, my father ! 

[He embraces his father. As he turns round, he 
observes Questenberg, and draws back with 
a cold and reserved air. 
You are engaged, I see. I '11 not disturb you. 

OCTAVIO. 

How, Max. ? Look closer at this visitor. 
Attention, Max., an old friend merits — Reverence 
Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign. 

MAX. (drily). 
Von Questenberg ! — Welcome — if you bring with you 
Aught good to our head-quarters. 

QUESTENBERG {seizing his hand). 

Nay, draw not 
Your hand away. Count Piccolomini ! 
Not on mine own account alone I seized it, 
And nothing common will I say therewith. 

[Taking the hands of loth. 
Octavio — Max. Piccolomini ! 

savior names, and full of happy omen ! 

Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria, 
While two such stars, with blessed influences 
Beaming protection, shine above her hosts. 

MAX. 

Heh! — Noble minister! You miss your part. 

You came not here to act a panegyric. 

You 're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold ik — 

1 must not be beforehand with my comrades. 

ocTAvio (to Max.). 
He cemes from court, where people are not quite 
So well contented with the Duke, as here. 

MAX. 

What now have they contrived to fibid out in him ? 

That he alone determines for himself 

What he himself alone doth understand ! 

Well, therein he does right, and will persist in 't. 

Heaven never meant him for that passive thing 

That can be struck and hammer'd out to suit 

Another's taste and fancy. He '11 not dance 

To every tune of every minister : 

It goes against his nature — he can't do it. 

He is possess'd by a commanding spirit. 

And his too is the station of command. 

And well for us it is so ! There exist 

Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use 

Their intellects intelligently. — Then 

Well for the whole, if there be foiind a man. 

Who makes himself what nature destined him, 

The pause, the central point to thousand thousands^— 

Stands fix'd and stately, like a firm-built column. 

Where all may press with joy and confidence. 

Now such a man is Wallenstein ; and if 

Another better suits the court — no other 

But such a one as he can serve the army 

QUESTENBERG 

The army ? Doubtless ! 



OCTAVIO {to Questenberg). 

Hush ! Suppress it, friend ! 
Unless some end were answer'd by the utterance.— 
Of him there you '11 make nothing. 

MAX. [continuing). 

In their distress 
They call a spirit up, and when he comes, 
Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they 

dread him 
More than the ills for which they call'd him up. 
The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be 
Like things of every day. — But in the field. 
Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt. 
The personal must command, the actual eye 
Examine. If to be the chieftain asks 
All that is great in nature, let it be 
Likewise his privilege to move and act 
In all the correspondencies of greatness. 
The oracle within him, that which lives, 
He must invoke and question — not dead books, 
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers. 



My son ! of those old narrow ordinances 
Let us not hold too Hghtly. They are weights 
Of priceless value, which oppress'd mankind 
Tied to the volatile Avill of their oppressors. 
For always formidable was the league 
And partnership of free power with free will. 
The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds. 
Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes 
The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path 
Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid. 
Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it 

reaches. 
My son ! the road, the human being travels. 
That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow 
The river's course, the valley's playful windings, 
Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines. 
Honoring the holy bounds of property ! 
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end. 

questenberg. 
O hear your father, noble youth ! hear him, 
Who is at once the hero and the man. 

OCTAVIO. 

My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee ! 
A war of fifteen years 
Hath been thy education and thy school. 
Peace hast thou never witness'd ! There exists 
A higher than the warrior's excellence. 
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. 
The vast and sudden deeds of violence, 
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment, 
These are not they, my son, that generate 
The Calm, the Bhssful, and the enduring Mighty ! 
Lo there ! the soldier, rapid architect ! 
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once 
The whole scene moves and bustles momently. 
With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel. 
The motley market fills ,• the roads, the streams 
Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries-' 
But on some morrow mom, all suddenly. 
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march. 
Dreary, and sohtary as a church-yard 
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie 
And the year's harvest is gone utterly 
136 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



127 



O let the Emperor make peace, my father ! 
Most gladly would I give the blood-stain'd laurel 
For the first violet* of the leafless spring, 
Pluck'd in those quiet fields where I have journey'd ! 

OCTA.VIO. 

What ails thee ? What so moves thee all at once ? 

MAX. 

Peace have I ne'er beheld ? I have beheld it. 

From thence am I come hither : O ! that sight, 

It glimmers still before me, like some landscape 

Left in the distance, — some delicious landscape ! 

My road conducted me through countries where 

The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father— 

My venerable father. Life has charms 

Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been 

But voyaging along its barren coasts. 

Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates, 

That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship, 

House on the wild sea with wild usages, 

Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays 

Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing. 

Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals 

Of fair and exquisite, O ! nothing, nothing. 

Do we behold of that in our rude voyage. 

OCTAVIO (attentive, imih an appearance of 
uneasiness). 
And so your journey has reveal'd this to you ? 

MAX. 

'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me, 

What is the meed and purpose of the toil, 

The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth. 

Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary, 

A spirit uninform'd, unornamented. 

For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum. 

The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet, 

The imvaried, still returning hour of duty, 

W^ord of command, and exercise of arms — 

There 's nothing here, there 's notlaing in all this 

To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart ! 

Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not — 

This cannot be the sole felicity. 

These cannot be man's best and only pleasures ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. 

MAX. 

O ! day thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier 

Returns home into life ; when he becomes 

A fellow-man among his fellow-men. 

The colors are unfurl'd, the cavalcade 

Marshals, and now the buzz is hush'd, and hark ! 

Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home ! 

The caps and helmets are all garlanded 

With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields. 

The city gates fly open of themselves, 

They need no longer the petard to tear them. 

The ramparts are all fiU'd with men and women. 

With peaceful men and women, that send onwards 

Kisses and welcomings upon the air. 

Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures. 

From all the towers rings out the merry peal, 



In the original, 

Den blut'gen Lorbeer geb ich hin mit Freuden 
Fiirs erste Veilchen, das der Maerz uns bringt. 
Das diirftige Ffand der neuvetjiingten Erde. 
S 



The joyous vespers of a bloody day. 

happy man, O fortunate ! for whom 

The well-known door, the faithful arras are open. 
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing. 
QUESTENBERG {apparently much affected). 
O ! that you should speak 
Of such a distant, distant time, and not 
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day. 

MAX {turning round to him, quick and vehement). 
Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna ! 

1 will deal openly with you, Questenberg. 
Just now, as first I saw you standing here, 
(I '11 own it to you freely) indignation 
Crowded and press'd my inmost soul together. 
'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye! — and the warrior, 
It is the warrior that must force it from you. 
Ye fret the General's life out. blacken tum, 
Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows 

What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons, 

And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy ; 

Which yet 's the only way to peace : for if 

War intermit not during war, how then 

And whence can peace come? — Your own plagues 

fall on you ! 
Even as I love what 's virtuous, hate I you. 
And here make I this vow, here pledge myself; 
My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein, 
And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye 
Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin. [Exit 



SCENE V. 



Questenberg, Octavio Piccolomini. 

questenberg. 
Alas, alas ! and stands it so ? 

[Then in pressing and impatient tones. 
What, friend ! and do we let him go away 
In this delusion — let him go away ? 
Not call him back immediately, not open 
His eyes upon the spot ? 

OCTAVIO {recovering himself out of a deep ^udy). 
He has now open'd mine. 
And I see more than pleases me. 

QUESTENBERG. 

What is it? 

OCTAVIO. 

Curse on this journey ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

But why so? What is it? 

OCTAVIO. 

Come, come along, friend ! I must follow up 
The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes 
Are open'd now, and I must use them. Come ! 

[Draws Questenberg on with him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

What now ? Where go you then ? 

OCTAVIO. 

To her herself 

QUESTENBERG. 

OCTAVIO {interrupting him, and correcting himself). 
To the Duke. Come, let us go — 'Tis done, '.is done, 
I see the net that is thrown over liim. 
Oh ! he returns not to me as he went. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Nay, but explain yourself 

137 



128 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OCTAVIO. 

And that I should not 
Foresee it, not prevent this journey ! Wherefore 
Did I keep it from him ? — You were in the right. 
I should have warn'd him ! Now it is too late. 

QUESTENBERG. 

But what^s too late ? Bethink yourself, my friend, 
That you are talking absolute riddles to me. 

OCTAVIO (more collected). 
Come ! to the Duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour, 
Which he appointed you for audience. Come ! 
A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey ! 

[He leads Questenberg off. 



SCENE VI. 



Changes to a spacious Chumher in the House of the 
Duke of Friedland. — Servants employed in putting 
the tables and chairs in order. During this enters 
Seni, liJce an old Italian doctor, in black and clothed 
somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff, 
with which he marks out the quarters of the heaven. 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Come — to it, lads, to it ! Make an end of it. I hear 
the sentry call out, " Stand to your arras !" They will 
be there in a minute. 

second servant. 

Why were we not told before that the audience 
would be held here ? Nothing prepared — ^no orders 
—no instructions — 

THIRD SERVANT. 

Ay, and why was the fealcony-chamber counter- 
manded, that with the great worked carpet ? — there 
one can look about one. 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there. 
He says it is an unlucky chamber. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

Poh ! stuff and nonsense ! That 's what I call a hum. 
A chamber is a chamber j what much can the place 
signify in the affair ? 

SENI (with gravity). 
My son, there 's nothing insignificant. 
Nothing ! But yet in every earthly thing 
First and most principal is place and time. 
FIRST SERVANT (to the sccond). 

Say nothing to him, Nat. The Duke himself must 
let him have his own will. 

SENI (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low 

voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats). 
Eleven ! an evil number ! Set twelve chairs. 
Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven, 
The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

And what may you have to object against eleven? 
I should like to know that now. 

SENI. 

Eleven is transgression ; eleven oversteps 
The ten commandments. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

That's good! and why do you call five a holy 
number ? 

SENI. 

Five is the soul of man : for even as man 
Is mingled up of good and evil, so 



The five is the first number that's made up 
Of even and odd. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

The foolish old coxcomb ! 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Ey! let him alone though. I like to hear him; 
there is more in his words than can be seen at first 
sight. 

THIRD SERVANT. 

0^ they come. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

There ! at the side-door. 

[They hurry off. Seni follows slowly. A Page 
brings the staff of command on a red cushion, 
and places it on the table near the Duke's chair. 
They are announced from without, and tht 
wings of the door fly open. 



SCENE VII. 
Wallenstein, Duchess. 

wallenstein. 
You went then through Vienna, were presented 
To the Queen of Hungary ? J 

duchess. 1 

Yes; and to the Empress too. 
And by both Majesties were we admitted 
To kiss the hand. 

wallenstein. 

And how was it received. 
That I had sent for wife and daughter hither 
To the camp, in winter-time ? 

duchess. 

I did even that 
Which you commission'd me to do. I told them, 
You had determined on our daughter's marriage, 
And wish'd, ere yet you went into the field. 
To show the elected husband his betrothed. 

wallenstein. 
And did they guess the choice which I had made ? 

DUCHESS. 

They only hoped and wish'd it may have fallen 
Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And you — what do you wish, Elizabeth ? 

DUCHESS. 

Your will, you know, was always mine. 
WALLENSTEIN (after a pause). 

Well then? 
And in all else, of what kind and complexion 
Was your reception at the court ? 

[The Duchess casts her eyes on the ground, and 
remains silent. 
Hide nothing from me. How were you received ? 

duchess. 
O ! my dear Lord, all is not what it was. 
A canker-worm, my Lord, a canker-worm 
Has stolen into the bud. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay ! is it so ? 
What, they were lax ? they fail'd of the old respect 

duchess. 
Not of respect. No honors were omitted. 
No outward courtesy ? but in the place 
Of condescending, confidential kindness. 
Familiar and endearing, there were given me 
138 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



129 



Only these honors and that solemn courtesy. 

Ah ! and the tenderness which was put on, 

It was the guise of pity, not of favor. 

No ! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife, 

Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so — 

Not wholly so should she have been received. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes, yes ; they have ta'en offence. My latest con- 
duct, 
They rail'd at it, no doubt. 

DUCHESS. 

O that they had! 
I have been long accustom'd to defend you, 
To heal and pacify distemper'd spirits. 
No ; no one rail'd at you. They wrapp'd them up, 
O Heaven ! in such oppressive, solemn silence ! — 
Here is no every-day misunderstanding, 
No transient pique, no cloud that passes over : 
Something most luckless, most unhealable. 
Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary 
Used formerly to call me her dear aimt, 
And ever at departure to embrace me— 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now she omitted it ? 

DUCHESS {wiping away her tears, after a pause). 
She did embrace me, 
But then first when I had already taken 
My formal leave, and when the door already 
Had closed upon me, then did she come out 
In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself, 
And press'd me to her bosom, more with anguish 
Than tenderness. 

WALLENSTEIN (scizes her hand soothingly). 
Nay, now collect yourself. 
And what of Eggenberg and lichtenstein, 
And of our other friends there ? 

DUCHESS (^shaking her head). 

I saw none. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The ambassador from Spain, who once was wont 
To plead so warmly for me ? — 

DUCHESS. 

Silent, silent! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward 
Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light. 

DUCHESS. 

And were it — were it, my dear Lord, in that 
Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper, 
But in the country let itself be heard 
Aloud — in that which Father Lamormain 
In sundry hints and— — 

WALLENSTEIN (eagerly). 

Lamormain ! what said he ? 

DUCHESS. 

Tliat you're accused of having daringly 

O'erstepp'd the powers intrusted to you, charged 

With traitorous contempt of the Emperor 

And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian, 

He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers — 

That there 's a storm collecting over you 

Of far more fearful menace than that former one 

Which whirl'd you headlong dovra at Regensburg. 

And people talk, said he, of Ah ! — 



WALLENSTEIN. 



Proceed ! 



I cannot utter it ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Proceed ! 

DUCHESS. 

They talk 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well! 

DUCHESS. 

Of a second {catches her voice and hesitates). 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Second 

DUCHESS. 

More disgraceful 
Dismission. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Talk they ? 
[Strides across the Chamber in vehement agitation;. 
O ! they force, they thrust me 
With violence against my own will, onward ! 

DUCHESS (presses near to him, in entreaty). 
O ! if there yet be time, my husband ! if 
By giving way and by submission, this 
Can be averted — my dear Lord, give way ! 
Win down your proud heart to it ! Tell that heart, 
It is your sovereign Lord, your Emperor, 
Before whom you retreat. O let no longer 
Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning 
With venomous glosses. Stand you up 
Shielded and helm'd and weapon'd with the truth, 
And drive before you into uttermost shame 
These slanderous liars ! Few firm friends have we — 
You know it ! — The swift growth of our good fortune 
It hath but set us up a mark for hatred. 
What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favor 
Stand not before us ? 



SCENE VIII. 



Enter the Countess Tertsky, leading in her hand ths 
Princess Thekla, richly adorned with Brilliants. 

Countess, Thekla, Wallenstein, Duchess. 

countess. 
How, sister ! What, already upon business ! 

[Observing the countenance of the Duchess. 
And business of no pleasing kind I see. 
Ere he has gladden'd at his child. The first 
Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland ! father ! 
This is thy daughter. 

[Thekla approaches with a shy and timid air, and 
bends herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives 
her in his arms, and remains standing for some 
time lost in the feeling of her presence. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes ! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me : 
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune. 

duchess. 
'Twas but a little child when you departed 
To raise up that great army for the Emperor : 
And after, at the close of the campaign. 
When you return'd home out of Pomerania, 
Your daughter was already in the convent, 
Wherein she has remain'd till now. 



WALLENSTEIN. 



The while 



139 



130 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



We in the field here gave our cares and toils 
To make her great, and fight her a free way 
To the loftiest earthly g9od ; lo ! mother Nature 
Within the peaceful silent convent walls 
Has done her part, and out of her free grace 
Hath she bestow'd on the beloved child 
The godhke ; and now leads her thus adom'd 
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope. 

DUCHESS {to ThEKLA). 

Thou wouldst not have recognized thy father, 
Wouldst thou, my child ? She counted scarce eight 

years. 
When last she saw your face. 

THEKLA. 

O yes, yes, mother ! 
At the first glance ! — My father is not alter'd. 
The form that stands before me falsifies 
No feature of the image that hath lived 
So long within me ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The voice of my child ! 

\Then after a pause. 
I was indignant at my destiny. 
That it denied me a man-child to be 
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune, 
And re-illume my soon extinguish'd being 
In a proud line of princes. 
I wrong'd my destiny. Here upon this head. 
So lovely in its maiden bloom, will I 
Let fall the garland of a life of war. 
Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it, 
Transmitted to a regal ornament. 
Around these beauteous brows. 

[He clasps her in his arms as Piccolomini enters. 



SCENE IX. 



Enter Max. Piccolomini, and some time after Count 
Tertsky, the others remaining as before. 

COUNTESS. 

There comes the Paladin who protected us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max. ! Welcome, ever welcome ! Always wert thou 
The morning-star of my best joys ! 

MAX. 

My General 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded thee, 
I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound 
The father to thee, Max. ! the fortunate father, 
And this debt Friedland's self must pay. 

MAX. 

My prince ! 
You made no common hurry to transfer it. 
I come with shame : yea, not without a pang ! 
For scarce have I arrived here, scarce deliver'd 
The mother and the daughter to your arms. 
But there is brought to me from your equerry 
A splendid richly-plated hunting-dress 

So to remunerate me for my troubles 

Yes, yes, remunerate me ! Since a trouble 
It must be, a mere office, not a favor 
Which I leapt forward to receive, and which 
I came already with full heart to thank you for. 



No ! 'twas not so intended, that my business 
Should be my highest best good-fortune ! 

[Tertsky enters, and delivers letters to the DuKK 
which he hreahs open hurryingly. 
COUNTESS (<o Max.). 
Remunerate your trouble ! For his joy 
He makes you recompense. 'Tis not unfitting 
For you. Count Piccolomini, to feel 
So tenderly — my brother it beseems 
To show himself for ever great and princely. 

THEKLA. 

Then I too must have scruples of his love ; 
For his munificent hands did ornament me 
Ere yet the father's heart had spoken to me. 

MAX. 

Yes ; 'tis his nature ever to be giving 
And making happy. 

\He grasps the hand of the DuCHESS vnth stiU in,' 
creasing warmth. 

How my heart pours out 
Its all of thanks to him ! O ! how I seem 
To utter all things in the dear name Friedland. 
While I shall live, so long will I remain 
The captive of this name : in it shall bloom 
My every fortune, every lovely hope. 
Inextricably as in some magic ring 
In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me ! 
COUNTESS (who during this time has been anxiously 
watching the Duke, and remarks that he is lost in 
thought over the letters). 
My brother wishes us to leave him. Come. 
WALLENSTEIN {JLurns himself round quick, collects him- 
self, and speaks with cheerfidness to the Duchess). 
Once more I bid thee welcome to the camp. 
Thou art the hostess of this court. You, Max., 
Will now again administer your old oflice. 
While we perform the sovereign's business here. 
[Max. Piccolomini offers the Duchess his arm ; the 
Countess accompanies the Princess. 
TERTSKY {calling after him). 
Max., we depend on seeing you at the meeting. 



SCENE X. 



WALLENSTEIN, CoUNT TeRTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN (in deep thought to himself). 
She hath seen all things as they are — It is so. 
And squares completely with my other notices. 
They have determined finally in Vienna, 
Have given me my successor already ; 
It is the king of Hungary, Ferdinand, 
The Emperor's delicate son ! he 's now their savior 
He's the new star that's rising now ! Of us 
They think themselves already fairly rid. 
And as we were deceased, the heir already 
Is entering on possession — Therefore — dispatch ! 
[As he turns round he observes Tertsky, and gives 
him a letter. 
Count Altringer will have himself excused, 
And Galas too — I like not this ! 

TERTSKY. 

And if 
Thou loiterest longer, all will fall away, 
One following the other. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Altringer 
140 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



131 



Is master of the Tyrol passes. I must forthwith 
Send some one to him, that he let not in 
The Spaniards on me from the Milanese. 

Well, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader 
In contraband negotiations, he 
Has shown himself again of late. What brings he 
From the Count Thur ? 

TERTSKY. 

The Count communicates. 
He has found out the Swedish chancellor 
At Halberstadt, where the convention 's held, 
Who says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have 
No further dealings with you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And why so ? 

TERTSKY. 

He sa5^, you are never in earnest in your speeches ; 
That you decoy the Swedes— to make fools of them; 
Will league yourself with Saxony against them, 
And at last make yourself a riddance of them 
With a paltry sum of money. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

So then, doubtless, 
Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects 
That I shall jdeld him some fair German tract 
For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last 
On our own soil and native territory, 
May be no longer our own lords and masters ! 
An excellent scheme ! No, no ! They must be off. 
Off, off! away ! we want no such neighbors. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land — 
It goes not from your portion. If you win 
The game, what matters it to you who pays it ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Off vwth them, off! Thou understand'st not this. 
Never shall it be said of me, I parcell'd 
My native land away, dismember'd Germany, 
Betray'd it to a foreigner, in order 
To come with stealthy tread, and filch away 
My own share of the plunder — Never! never! — 
No foreign power shall strike root in the empire, 
And least of all, these Goths ! these hunger- wolves ! 
Who send such envious, hot and greedy glances 
Towards the rich blessings of our German lands ! 
I'll have their aid to cast and draw my nets, 
But not a single fish of all the draught 
Shall they come in for. 

TERTSKY. 

You will deal, however. 
More fairly with the Saxons ? They lose patience 
While you shift ground and make so many curves. 
Say, to what purpose all these masks ? Your friends 
Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you. 
There 's Oxenstein, there 's Arnheim — neither knows 
What he should think of your procrastinations, 
And in the end I prove the liar ; all 
Passes through me. I have not even your hand- 
writing. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I never give my handwriting ; thou knowest it. 

TERTSKY. 

But how can it be known that you're in earnest. 

If the act follows not upon the word ? 

You must yourself acknowledge, that in all 

Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy. 

You might have done with safety all you have done, 



Had you meant nothing further than to gull him 
For the Emperor's service. 

WALLENSTEIN (after a pause, during which he 
looks narrowly on Tertsky). 

And from whence dost thou know 
That I 'm not gulling him for the Emperor's service ? 
Whence knowest thou that I 'm not gulling all of you ? 
Dost thou know me so well ? When made I thee 
The intendant of my secret purposes ? 
I am not conscious that I ever open'd 
My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is true. 
Hath dealt with me amiss ; and if I would, 
I could repay him with usurious interest 
For the evil he hath done me. It delights me 
To know my power ; but whether I shall use it. 
Of that, I should have thought that thou couldst 



with us. 
[Enter Illo. 



No wiselier than thy fellows. 

TERTSKY. 

So hast thou always play'd thy 



SCENE XI. 



Illo, Wallenstein, Tertsky. 

wallenstein. 
How stand affairs without ? Are they prepared ? 

ILLO. 

You'll find them in the very mood you wish. 
They know about the Emperor's requisitions, 
And are tumultuous. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How hath Isolan 
Declared himself? 

ILLO. 

He 's yours, both soul and body> 
Since you built up again his Faro-bank. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And which way doth Kolatto bend ? Hast thou 
Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodate ? 

ILLO. 

What Piccolomini does, that they do too. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You mean, then, I may venture somewhat with them? 

ILLO. 

— If you are assured of the Piccolomini, 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not more assured of mine owti self. 

TERTSKY. 

And yet 
I would you trusted not so much to Octavio, 
The fox! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou teachest me to know my man ? 
Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior 
Besides, I have his horoscope : 
We both are bom beneath like stars — in short, 

[ With an air of mystery 
To this belongs its own particular aspect. 
If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest 

ILLO. 

There is among them all but this one voice. 
You must not lay down the command. I hear 
They mean to send a deputation to you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If I 'm in aught to bind myself to them, 
They too must bind themselves to me. 

141 



132 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ILLO. 

Of course. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Their words of honor they must give, their oaths, 
Give them in writing to me, promising 
Devotion to my service unconditional. 

ILLO. 

Why not? 

TERTSKY. 

Devotion unconditional? 
The exception of their duties towards Austria 
They'll always place among the premises. 
With this reserve 

WALLENSTEIN {shaking his head). 
All unconditional ! 
No premises, no reserves. 

ILLO. 

A thought has struck me. 
Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet 
This evening ? 

TERTSKY. 

Yes ; and all the Generals 
Have been invited. 

ILLO {to WALLENSTEIN). 

Say, will you here fully 
Commission me to use my own discretion ? 
I '11 gain for you the Generals' words of honor, 
Even as you wish. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Gain me their signatures! 
How you come by them, that is your concern. 

ILLO. 

And if I bring it4o you, black on white. 
That all the leaders who are present here 
Give themselves up to you, without condition ; 
Say, will you then — then will you show yourself 
In earnest, and with some decisive action 
Make trial of your luck ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The signatures! 
Gain me the signatures. 

ILLO. 

Seize, seize the hour. 
Ere it slips from you. Seldom comes the moment 
In life, which is indeed sublime and weighty. 
To make a great decision possible, 
O ! many things, all transient and all rapid, 
Must meet at once : and, haply, they thus met 
May by that confluence be enforced to pause 
Time long enough for wisdom, though too short. 
Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple ! 
This is that moment. See, our army chieftains. 
Our best, our noblest, are assembled around you. 
Their king-like leader I On your nod they wait. 
The single threads, which here your prosperous for- 
tune 
Hath woven together in one potent web 
Instinct with destiny, let them not 
Unravel of themselves. If you permit 
These chiefs to separate, so unanimous 
Bring you them not a second time together. 
Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship. 
And every individual's spirit waxes 
In the great stream of multitudes. Behold 
They are still here, here still ! But soon the war 
Bursts them once more asunder, and in small 
Particular anxieties and interests 
Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy 



Of each man with the whole. He who to-day 
Forgets himself, forced onward with the stream, 
Will become sober, seeing but himself. 
Feel only his own weakness, and with speed 
Will face about, and march on in the old 
High road of duty, the old broad trodden road, 
And seek but to make shelter in good plight. 



The time 



WALLENSTEIN. 

not yet come. 



TERTSKY. 

So you say always. 
But when will it be time ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

^Vhen I shall say it. 

ILLO. 

You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours. 
Till the earthly hour escapes you. O, believe me, 
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars. 
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution. 
This is your Venus ! and the soul malignant, 
The only one that harmeth you, is Doubt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou speakest as thou understand'st. How oft 
And many a time I 've told thee, Jupiter, 
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth. 
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries ; 
Mole-eyed, thou mayest but burrow in the earth, 
Blind as that subterrestrial, who with wan, 
Lead-color'd shine lighted thee into life. 
The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest see, 
With serviceable cunning knit together 
The nearest with the nearest ; and therein 
I trust thee and believe thee ! but whate'er 
Full of mysterious import Nature weaves 
And fashions in the depths — the spirit's ladder, 
That from this gross and visible world of dust 
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds, 
Builds itself up ; on which the unseen powers 
Move up and down on heavenly ministries — 
The circles in the circles, that approach 
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit — 
These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye, 
Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre. 

[He walks across the chamber, then returns, and 
standing still, proceeds. 
The heavenly constellations make not merely 
The day and nights, summer and spring, not merely 
Signify to the husbandman the seasons 
Of sowing and of harvest. Human action, 
That is the seed too of contingencies, 
Strew'd on the dark land of futurity 
In hopes to reconcile the powers of fate. 
Whence it behoves us to seek out the seed-time, 
To watch the stars, select their proper hours. 
And trace with searching eye the heavenly houses, 
Whether the enemy of growth and thriving 
Hide himself not, malignant, in his comer. 
Therefore permit me my own time. Meanwhile 
Do you your part. As yet I cannot say 
What I shall do — only, give way I will not. 
Depose me too they shall not. On these points 
You may rely. 

PAGE {entering). 
My Lords, the Generals. 



WALLENSTEIN. 



Let them come in. 



142 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



133 



SCENE XII. 

Wallenstein, TertskyJllo.— To them enter QuES- 
TENBERG, OcTAVio and Max. Piccolomini, But- 
ler, IsoLANi, Maradas, and three other Generals. 
Wallenstein motions Questenberg, who in con- 
sequence takes the chair directly opposite to him ; the 
others follow, arranging themselves according to 
their rank. There reigns a momentary silence. 

wallenstein. 
I have understood, 'tis true, the sum and import 
Of your instructions, Questenberg; have weigh'd 

them. 
And form'd my final, absolute resolve : 
Yet it seems fitting, that the Generals 
Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth. 
May't please you then to open your commission 
Before these noble Chieftains ? 

questenberg. 

I am ready 
To obey you ; but will first entreat your Highness, 
And all these noble Chieftains, to consider, 
The Imperial dignity and sovereign right 
Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption. 

wallenstein. 
We excuse all preface. 

questenberg. 

When his Majesty 
The Emperor to his courageous armies 
Presented in the person of Duke Friedland 
A most experienced and renown'd commander. 
He did it in glad hope and confidence 
To give thereby to the fortune of the war 
A rapid and auspicious change. The onset 
Was favorable to his royal wishes. 
Bohemia was deliver'd from the Saxons, 
The Swede's career of conquest check'd ! These lands 
Began to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland 
From all the streams of Germany forced hither 
The scatter'd armies of the enemy ; 
Hither invoked as round one magic circle 
The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstein, 
Yea, and that never-conquer'd King himself; 
Here finally, before the eye of Niirnberg, 
The fearful game of battle to decide. 

wallenstein. 
May't please you, to the point. 

QUESTENBERG. 

In Niirnberg's camp the Swedish monarch lefl 
His fame — in Liitzen's plains his life. But who 
Stood not astounded, when victorious Friedland 
After this day of triumph, this proud day, 
March'd toward Bohemia with the speed of flight, 
And vanish'd from the theatre of war; 
While the young Weimar hero forced his way 
Into Franconia, to the Danube, like 
Some delving winter-stream, which, where it rushes, 
Makes its own channel ; with such sudden speed 
He march'd, and now at once 'fore Regenspurg 
Stood to the affright of all good Catholic Christians. 
Then did Bavaria's well-deserving Prince 
Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need ; 
The Emperor sends seven horsemen to Duke Fried- 
land, 
Seven horsemen couriers sends he with the entreaty 
He superadds his own, and supplicates 
Where as the sovereign lord he can command. 



In vain his supplication ! At this moment 
The Duke hears only his old hate and grudge, 
Barters the general good to gratify 
Private revenge — and so falls Regenspurg. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max., to what period of the war alludes he ? 
My recollection fails me here ! 



He means 



When we were in Silesia. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay ! is it so ? 
But what had we to do there ? 



To beat out 
The Swedes and Saxons from the province. 

WALLENSTEIN. 



True, 



In that description which the Minister gave 
I seem'd to have forgotten the whole war. 

[7b Questenberg. 
Well, but proceed a little. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yes ; at length 
Beside the river Oder did the Duke 
Assert his ancient fame. Upon the fields 
Of Steinau did the Swedes lay down their arms, 
Subdued without a blow. And here, with others. 
The righteousness of Heaven to his avenger 
Deliver'd that long-practised stirrer-up 
Of insurrection, that curse-laden torch 
And kindler of this war, Matthias Thur. 
But he had fallen into magnanimous hands ; 
Instead of punishment he found reward. 
And with rich presents did the Duke dismiss 
The arch-foe of his Emperor. 

WALLENSTEIN (laUghs). 

1 know, 
I know you had already in Vienna 
Your windows and balconies all forestall'd 
To see him on the executioner's cart. 
I might have lost the battle, lost it too 
With infamy, and still retain'd your graces— 
But, to have cheated them of a spectacle, 
Oh ! that the good folks of Vienna never, 
No, never can forgive me ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

So Silesia 
Was freed, and all things loudly call'd the Duke 
Into Bavaria, now press'd hard on all sides. 
And he did put his troops in motion : slowly. 
Quite at his ease, and by the longest road 
He traverses Bohemia ; but ere ever 
He hath once seen the enemy, faces round, 
Breaks up the march, and takes to winter-quarters 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The troops were pitiably destitute 
Of every necessary, every comfort. 
The winter came. What thinks his Majesty 
His troops are made of? A n't we men? subjected 
Like other men to wet, and cold, and all 
The circumstances of necessity ? 
O miserable lot of the poor soldier ! 
Wherever he comes in, all flee before him, 
And when he goes away, the general curse 
Follows him on his route. All must be seized,. 

143 



134 



COLERIDGE^S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nothing is given him. And compell'd to seize 
From every man, he 's every man's abhorrence. 
Behold, here stand my Generals. KarafFa! 
Count Deodate ! Butler ! Tell this man 
How long the soldiers' pay is in arrears. 

BUTLER. 

Already a full year. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And 'tis the hire 
That constitutes the hireling's name and duties, 
The soldier's pay is the soldier's covenant.* 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ah ! this is a far other tone from that, 

In which the Duke spoke eight, nine years ago. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes ! 'tis my fault, I know it : I myself 
Have spoilt the Emperor by indulging him. 
Nine years ago, during the Danish war, 
I raised him up a force, a mighty force. 
Forty or fifty thousand men, that cost him 
Of his own purse no doit. Through Saxony 
The fury goddess of the war march'd on. 
E'en to the surf rocks of the Baltic, bearing 
The terrors of his name. That was a time ! 
In the whole Imperial realm no name like mine 
Honor'd with festival and celebration — 
And Albrecht Wallenstein, it was the title 
Of the third jewel in his crown! 
But at the Diet, when the Princes met 
At Regensburg, there, there the whole broke out, 
There 'twas laid open, there it was made known, 
Out of what money-bag I had paid the host. 
And what was now my thank, what had I now, 
That I, a faithful servant of the Sovereign, 
Had loaded on myself the people's curses, 
And let the Princes of the empire pay 
The expenses of this war, that aggrandizes 
The Emperor alone — What thanks had I ? 
What ? I was offer'd up to their complaints, 
Dismiss'd, degraded ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

But youi* Highness knows 
What little freedom he possess'd of action 
In that disastrous Diet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Death and hell ! 
I Jiad that which could have procured him freedom 
No! since 'twas proved so inauspicious to me 
To serve the Emperor at the empire's cost, 
I have been taught far other trains of thinking 
Of the empire, and the diet of the empire. 
From the Emperor, doubtless, I received this stafll^ 
But now I hold it as the empire's general — 
For the common weal, the universal interest, 
And no more for that one man's aggrandizement ! 
But to the point. What is it that's desired of me ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

First, his Imperial Majesty hath will'd 



* The original is not translatable into English ; 

Und sein Sold 

Muss dem Soldaten werden, darnach heisst er. 
It might perhaps have been thus rendered : 

And that for which he sold his services, 
The soldier must receive. 
But a false or doubtful etymolosy is no more than a dull pun. 



That without pretexts of delay the army 
Evacuate Bohemia. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In this season ? 
And to what quarter wills the Emperor 
That we direct our course ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

To the enemy. 
His Majesty resolves, that Regensburg 
Be purified from the enemy ere Easter, 
That Lutheranism may be no longer preach'd 
In that cathedral, nor heretical 
Defilement desecrate the celebration 
Of that pure festival. ** 

WALLENSTEIN. 

My generals. 
Can this be realized ? 

ILLO. 

'Tis not possible. 

BUTLER. 

It can't be realized. 

QUESTENBERG. 

The Emperor 
Already hath commanded Colonel Suys 
To advance toward Bavaria. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What did Suys t 

QUESTENBERG. 

That which his duty prompted. He advanced ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What ! he advanced ? And I, his general. 
Had given him orders, peremptory orders, 
Not to desert his station ! Stands it thus 
With my authority ? Is this the obedience 
Due to my office, which being thrown aside, 
No war can be conducted ? Chieftains, speak. 
You be the judges, generals ! What deserves 
That officer, who of his oath neglectful 
Is guilty of contempt of orders ? 

ILLO. 

Death. 
WALLENSTEIN (raising his voice, as all, hut Illo, had 

remained silent, and seemingly scrupulous). 
Count Piccolomini ! what has he deserved ? 

MAX. PICCOLOMINI [after a long pause). 
According to the letter of the law. 
Death. 

ISOLANI. 

Death. 

BUTLER. 

Death, by the laws of war. 
[QUESTENBERG rises from his seat, Wallenstein 
follows ; all the rest rise. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To this the law condemns him, and not I. 
And if I show him favor, 'twill arise 
From the reverence that I owe my Emperor 

QUESTENBERG. 

If so, I can say nothing further — here! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I accepted the command but on conditions : 

And this the first, that to the diminution 

Of my authority no human being, 

Not even the Emperor's self, should be entitled 

To do aught, or to say aught, with the army. 

If I stand warranter of the event, 

144 



THE PICCOLOMINl. 



135 



Placing my honor and my head in pledge, 
Needs must I have full mastery in all 
The means thereto. What render'd this Gustavus 
Resistless, and unconquer'd upon earth ? 
This — that he was the monarch in his army ! 
A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch, 
Was never yet subdued but by his equal. 
But to the point ! The best is yet to come. 
Attend now, generals ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

The Prince Cardinal 
Begins his route at the approach of spring 
From the Milanese ; and leads a Spanish army 
Through Germany into the Netherlands. 
That he may march secure and unimpeded, 
'Tis the Emperor's will you grant him a detachment 
Of eight horse regiments from the army here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes, yes ! I understand ! — Eight regiments ! Well, 
Right well concerted, father Lamormain .' 
Eight thousand horse! Yes, yes! 'Tis as it should be! 
I see it coming. 

QUESTENBERG. 

There is nothing coming. 
All stands in front : the counsel of state-prudence. 
The dictate of necessity ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What then ? 
What, my Lord Envoy ? May I not be sufFer'd 
To understand, that folks are tired of seeing 
The sword's hilt in my grasp : and that your court 
Snatch eagerly at this pretence, and use 
The Spanish title, to drain off my forces. 
To lead into the empire a new army 
Unsubjected to my control ? To throw me 
Plumply aside, — I am still too powerful for you 
To venture that. My stipulation runs, 
That all the Imperial forces shall obey me 
Where'er the German is the native language. 
Of Spanish troops and of Prince Cardinals 
That take their route, as visitors, through the empire. 
There stands no syllable in my stipulation. 
No syllable ! And so the' politic court 
Steals in a tiptoe, and creeps round behind it ; 
First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with. 
Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow 
And make short work with me. 
What need of all these crooked ways, Lord Envoy ? 
Straight forward, man! His compact with me pinches 
The Emperor. He would that I moved off! — 
Well ! — I will gratify him ! 

{Here there commences an agitation among the 
Generals, which increases continually. 
It grieves me for my noble officers' sakes ! 
I see not yet, by what means they will come at 
The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain 
The recompense their services demand. 
Still a new leader brings new claimants forward, 
And prior merit superannuates quickly. 
There serve here many foreigners in the army, 
And were the man in all else brave and gallant, 
I was not went to make nice scrutiny 
After his pedigree or catechism. 
This will be otherwise, i' the time to come. 
Well — me no longer it concerns. [He seats himself. 
T 



MAX. PICCOLOMINl. 

Forbid it Heaven, that it should come to this ! 
Our troops will swell in dreadful fermentation — 
The Emperor is abused — it cannot be. 

ISOLANI. 

It cannot be ; all goes to instant wreck. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani ! 
What we with toil and foresight have built UD 
Will go to wreck — all go to instant wreck. 
What then ? another chieftain is soon found. 
Another army likewise (who dares doubt it?) 
Will flock from all sides to the Emperor, 
At the first beat of his recruiting drum. 

[During this speech, Isolani, Tertsky, Illo, 

and Maradas talk confusedly with great 

agitation. 

MAX. PICCOLOMINl (busily and passionately going 
from one to another, and soothing them. 
Hear, my commander ! Hear me, generals ! 
Let me conjure you, Duke ! Determine nothing, 
Till we have met and represented to you 
Our joint remonstrances. — Nay, calmer! Friends! 
I hope all may be yet set right again. 

tertsky. 
Away ! let us away ! in the antechamber 
Find we the others. {They go. 

BUTLER {to QuESTENBERG). 

If good counsel gain 
Due audience from your wisdom, my Lord Envoy ! 
You will be cautious how you show yourself 
In public for some hours to come — or hardly 
Will that gold key protect you from maltreatment. 

[Commotions heard from without. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A salutary counsel Thou, Octavio ! 

Wilt answer for the safety of our guest. 
Farewell, Von Questenberg ! 

[QUESTENBERG IS obout to Speak. 
Nay, not a word. 
Not one word more of that detested subject ! 
You have perform'd your duty — We know how 
To separate the office from the man. 

[As Questenberg is going off with Octavio ; 
GoETZ, Tiefenbach, Kolatto, press in ; 
several other Generals following them. 
goetz. 
Where 's he who means to rob us of our general ? 

TIEFENBACH {at the Same time). 
What are we forced to hear? That thou wilt leave us? 

KOLATTO {at the same time). 
We will live with thee, we will die vdth thee- 

WALLENSTEIN {with statcUness, and pointing to Illo). 
There ! the Feld-Marshal knows our will. [Exit. 
[While all are going off the Stage, the curtain 
drops. 



ACT IL 
SCENE L 

Scene — A small Chamber. 
Illo and Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Now for this evening's business ! How intend you 
To manage with the generals at the banquet ? 
145 



136 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Attend ! We frame a formal declaration, 

Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves 

Collectively, to be and to remain 

His both with life and limb, and not to spare 

The last drop of our blood for him, provided 

So doing we infringe no oath or duty. 

We may be under to the Emperor. — Mark ! 

This reservation we expressly make 

In a particular clause, and save the conscience. 

Now hear ! This formula so framed and worded 

Will be presented to them for perusal 

Before the banquet. No one will find in it 

Cause of offence or scruple. Hear now further ! 

After the feast, when now the vap'ring wine 

Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let 

A counterfeited paper, in the which 

This one particular clause has been left out, 

Go round for signatures. 

TERTSKY. 

How ! think you then 
That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath, 
Which we had trick'd them into by a juggle ? 

ILLO. 

We shall have caught and caged them! Let them then 
Beat their wings bare against the wires, and rave 
Loud as they may against our treachery ; 
At court their signatures will be believed 
Far more than their most holy affirmations. 
Traitors they are, and must be ; therefore wisely 
Will make a virtue of necessity. 

TERTSKY. 

Well, well, it shall content me ; let but something 
Be done, let only some decisive blow 
Set us in motion. 

ILLO. 

Besides, 'tis of subordinate importance 
How, or how far, we may thereby propel 
The Generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade 
The Duke that they are his — Let him but act 
In his determined mood, as if he had them, 
And he will have them. Where he plunges in, 
He makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it. 

TERTSKY. 

His policy is such a labyrinth. 
That many a lime when I have thought myself 
Close at his side, he 's gone at once, and left me 
Ignorant of the grovmd where I was standing. 
He lends the enemy his ear, permits me 
To write to them, to Arnheim ; to Sesina 
Himself comes forward blank and undisguised ; 
Talks with us by the hour about his plans. 
And when I think I have him — off at once 
He has slipp'd from me, and appears as if 
He had no scheme, but to retain his place. 

ILLO. 

He give up his old plans ! I '11 tell you, friend ! 
His soul is occupied with nothing else. 
Even in his sleep — They are his thoughts, his dreams, 
That day by day he questions for this purpose 
The motions of the planets 

TERTSKY. 

Ay ! you know 
This night, that is now coming, he with Seni 
Sh\its himself up in the astrological tower 
To make joint observations — for I hear, 



It is to be a night of weight and crisis ; 

And something great, and of long expectation. 

Is to make its procession in the heaven. 

ILLO. 

Come ! be we bold and make dispatch. The work 
In this next day or two must thrive and grow 
More than it has for years. And let but only 

Things first turn up auspicious here below 

Mark what I say — the right stars too will show them* 

selves. 
Come, to the Generals. All is in the glow. 
And must be beaten while 'tis malleable. 

TERTSKY. 

Do you go thither, Illo. I must stay. 
And wait here for the countess Tertsky. Know, 
That we too are not idle. Break one string, 
A second is in readiness. 

ILLO. 

Yes! Yes! 
I saw your lady smile with such sly meaning. 
What's in the wind ? 

TERTSKY. 

A secret. Hush! she comes. 
[Exit Illo. 



SCENE n. 



CThe Countess sfep« out from a Closet)- 
Count and Countess Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Well— is she coming ?— I can keep him back 
No longer. 

COUNTESS. 

She will be there instantly, 
You only send him. 

TERTSKY. 

I am not quite certain, 
I must confess it, Countess, whether or not 
We are earning the Duke's thanks hereby. You know. 
No ray has broke out from him on this point 
You have o'erruled me, and yourself know best 
How far you dare proceed. 

COUNTESS. 

I take it on me. 
[Talking to herself, while she is advancing. 
Here 's no need of full powers and commissions — 
My cloudy Duke ! we understand each other — 
And without words. What, could I not unriddle. 
Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither, 
Why first he, and no other, should be chosen 
To fetch her hither ? This sham of betrothing hei; 
To a bridegroom,* when no one knows — No! no! 
This may blind others ! I see through thee. Brother! 
But it beseems thee not, to draw a card 
At such a game. Not yet ! — It all remains 

Mutely deUver'd up to my finessing 

Well — thou shalt not have been deceived, Duke 

Friedland ! 
In her who is thy sister. 

SERVANT (enters). 

The commanders ! 
TERTSKY {to the Countess). 
Take care you heat his fancy and affections — 



* In Germany, afler honorable addresses have been paid and 
formally accepted, the lovers are called Bride and Bridegroom, 
even though the marriage should not take place till years aftei- 
wards. 

146 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



137 



him Avith a reverie, and send him, 
Absent and dreaming, to the banquet; that 
He may not boggle at the signature. 

COUNTESS. 

Take you care of your guests ! — Go, send him hither. 

TERTSKY. 

All rests upon his undersigning. 

COUNTESS {interrupting him). 

Go to your guests ! Go 

ILLO {comes lack). 

Where art staying, Tertsky ? 
The house is full, and all expecting you. 

TERTSKY. 

Instantly! Instantly! 

[To the Countess. 
And let him not 
Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion 

In the old man 

countess. 

A truce with your precautions ! 
[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo. 



SCENE m. 



Countess, Max. Piccolomini. 
MAX. {peeping in on the stage shyhj). 
Atmt Tertsky ! may I venture ? 

[Advances to the middle of the stage, and looks 
around him with uneasiness. 

She 's not here ! 
Where is she ? 

countess. 
Look but somewhat narrowly 
In yonder comer, lest perhaps she lie 
Conceal'd behind that screen. 

MAX. 

There lie her gloves ! 
[Snatches at them, hut the Countess takes them 
herself. 
You unkind Lady ! You refuse me this — 
You make it an amusement to torment me. 

countess. 
And this the thank you give mo for my trouble ? 

MAX. 

O, if you felt the oppression at my heart ! 
Since we 've been here, so to constrain myself — 
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glan< 
These, these are not my habits ! 
countess. 

You have still 
Many new habits to acquire, young friend ! 
But on this proof of your obedient temper 
I must continue to insist ; and only 
On this condition can I play the agent 
For your concerns. 

MAX. 

But wherefore comes she not ? 
Where is she ? 

countess. 
Into my hands you must place it 
Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed, 
More zealously affected to your interest ? 
No soul on earth must know it — ^not your father. 
He must not, above all. 

MAX. 

Alas! what danger? 



Here is no face on which I might concentre 
All the enraptured soul stirs up within me. 

Lady ! tell me. Is all changed around me ? 
Or is it only I ? 

I find myself. 
As among strangers ! Not a trace is left 
Of all my former wishes, former joys. 
Where has it vanish'd to ? There was a time 
When even, methought, with such a world as this 

1 was not discontented. Now, how flat ! 
How stale I No life, no bloom, no flavor in it ! 
My comrades are intolerable to me. 

My father — Even to him I can say nothing. 
My arms, my military duties — O ! 
They are such wearying toys ! 

countess. 

But, gentle friend ! 
I must entreat it of your condescension. 
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor 
With one short glance or two this poor stale world, 
Where even now much, and of much moment, 
Is on the eve of its completion. 

MAX. 

Something, 
I can't but know, is going forward round me. 
I see it gathering, crowding, driving on, 
In wild uncustomary movements. Well, 
In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me. 
Where think you I have been, dear lady ? Nay, 
No raillery. The turmoil of the camp, 
The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in. 
The pointless jest, the empty conversation, 
Oppress'd and stiflfen'd me. I gasp'd for air— 
I could not breathe — I was constrain'd to fly. 
To seek a silence out for my full heart ; 
And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness. 
No smiling, Countess ! In the church was I. 
There is a cloister here to the heaven's gate,* 
Thither I went, there found myself alone. 
Over the altar hung a holy mother ; 
A viretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas the friend 
That I was seeking in this moment. Ah, 
How oft have I beheld that glorious form 
In splendor, 'mid ecstatic worshippers ; 
Yet, still it moved me not ! and now at once 
Was my devotion cloudless as my love. 

countess. 
Enjoy your fortune and felicity ! 
Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship 
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active. 
Only be manageable when that friendship 
Points you the road to full accomplishment. 
How long may it be since you declared your passion ? 

MAX. 

This morning did I hazard the first word. 

countess. 
This morning the first time in twenty days ? 

MAX. 

'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here 

And Nepomuck, where you had join'd us, and — 

That was the last relay of the whole journey ! 



* I am doubtful whether this be the dedication of the cloister, 
or the name of one of the city gates, near which it stood. I 
have translated it in the former sense ; but fearful of having 
made some blunder, I add the original.— Es ist ein Kloster hier 
zur Himmelspforte. 

147 



138 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In a balcony we were standing mute, 

And gazing out upon the dreary field : 

Before us the dragoons were riding onward, 

The safeguard which the Duke had sent us — heavy 

The inquietude of parting lay upon me, 

And trembling ventured I at length these words : 

This all reminds me, noble maiden, that 

To-day I must take leave of my good fortune. 

A few hours more, and you will find a father, 

Will see yourself surrounded by new friends, 

And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger. 

Lost in the many — " Speak with my aunt Tertsky !" 

With hurrying voice she interrupted me. 

She falter'd. I beheld a glowing red 

Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground 

Raised slowly up, her eye met mine — no longer 

Did I control myself 

{The Princess Thekla appears at the door, and 

remains standing, observed by the Countess, 

but not by Piccolomini. 

With instant boldness 
I caught her in my arms, my mouth touch'd hers ; 
There was a rustling in the room close by ; 
It parted us — 'Twas you. What since has happen'd. 
You know. 

COUNTESS {after a pause, with a stolen glance 
at Thekla). 
And is it your excess of modesty ; 
Or are you so incurious, that you do not 
Ask me too of my secret ? 

MAX. 

Of your secret ? 

COUNTESS. 

Wliy, yes ! When in the instant after you 
I stepp'd into the room, and found my niece there, 
What she in this first moment of the heart 
Ta'en with surprise — 

MAX. (with eagerness). 
Well? 



SCENE IV. 
Thekla (hurries forward), Countess, Max. 

PiCCOLOMINL 

THEKLA (to the Countess). 

Spare yourself the trouble : 
That hears he better from myself 

MAX. {stepping backward). 

My Princess! 
What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky ? 

THEKLA {to the Countess). 
Has he been here long ? 

countess. 

Yes ; and soon must go. 
Where have you stay'd so long ? 

THEKLA. 

Alas! my mother 
Wept so again ! and I — I see her svtffer. 
Yet cannot keep myself from being happy. 

MAX. 

Now once again I have courage to look on you. 
To-day at noon I could not. 
The dazzle of the jewels that play'd round you 
Hid the beloved from me. 

THEKLA. 

Then you saw me 
With your eye only — and not with your heart ? 



This morning, when I found you in the circle 

Of all your kindred, in your father's arms. 

Beheld myself an alien in this circle, 

O ! what an impulse felt I in that moment 

To fall upon his neck, to call him father ! 

But his stern eye o'erpower'd the swelling passion — 

It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants. 

That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows. 

They scared me too I O wherefore, wherefore should he 

At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban 

Of excommunication round you, — wherefore 

Dress up the angel as for sacrifice. 

And cast upon the light and joyous heart 

The mournful burthen of ?iis station ? Fitly 

May love dare woo for love ,• but such a splendor 

Might none but monarchs venture to approach- 

THEKLA. 

Hush ! not a word more of this mummery ; 
You see how soon the burthen is thrown off 

[To the Countess. 
He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not ? 
'Tis you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy! 
He had quite another nature on the journey — 
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent. 

[To Max. 
It was my wish to see you always so, 
And never otherwise ! 

MAX. 

You find yourself 
In your great father's arms, beloved lady ! 
All in a new world, which does homage to you, 
And which, were 't only by its novelty. 
Delights your eye. 

THEKLA. 

Yes ; I confess to you 
That many things delight me here : this camp. 
This motley stage of warriors, which renews 
So manifold the image of my fancy, 
And binds to life, binds to reality. 
What hitherto had but been present to me 
As a sweet dream ! 

MAX. 

Alas ! not so to me. 
It makes a dream of my reality. 
Upon some island in the ethereal heights 
I 've lived for these last days. This mass of men 
Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge 
That, reconducting to my former life. 
Divides me and my heaven. 

THEKLA. 

The game of life 
Loolcs cheerful, when one carries in one's heart 
The unalienable treasure. 'Tis a game. 
Which having once review'd, I turn more joyous 
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss. 

[Breaking off, and in a sportive tone 
In this short time that I 've been present here. 
What new unheard-of things have I not seen ! 
And yet they all must give place to the wonder 
Which this mysterious castle guards. 

countess {recollecting). 

And what 
Can this be then ? Methought I was acquainted 
With all the dusky comers of this house. 
148 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



139 



THEKLA {smiling). 
Ay, but the road thereto is watch'd by spirits : 
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door. 

COUNTESS (laughs). 
The astrological tower !— How happens it 
That this same sanctuary, whose access 
Is to all others so impracticable. 
Opens before you even at your approach? 

THEKLA. 

A dwarfish old man with a friendly face 

And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services 

Were mine at first sight, open'd me the doors. 

MAX. 

That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni. 

THEKLA. 

He question'd me on many points ; for instance, 
When I was born, what month, and on what day, 
Whether by day or in the night. 

COUNTESS. 

He wish'd 
To erect a figure for your horoscope. 

THEKLA. 

My hand too he examined, shook his head 

With much sad meaning, and the hues, methought, 

Did not square over- truly with his wishes. 

COUNTESS. 

Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower ? 
My highest privilege has been to snatch 
A side-glance, and away ! 

THEKLA. 

It was a strange 
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first 
From the broad sunshine I stepp'd in ; and now 
The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after 
The closing door, was gone ; and all about me 
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows 
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven 
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me 
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand 
A sceptre bore, and on his head a star ; 
And in the tower no other light was there 
But from these stars : all seem'd to come from them 
" These are the planets," said that low old man, 
" They govern worldly fates, and for that cause 
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you, 
Spiteful, and cold, an old man melancholy. 
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn. 
He opposite, the king with the red light, 
An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars : 
And both these bring but little luck to man." 
But at his side a lovely lady stood. 
The star upon her head was soft and bright, 
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. 
On the left hand, lo I Mercury, with wings. 
Quite in the middle ghtter'd silver bright 
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien ; 
And this was Jupiter, my father's star ; 
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon. 

MAX. 

O never rudely will I blame his faith 

In the might of stars and angels ! 'Tis not merely 

The human being's Pride that peoples space 

With life and mystical predominance : 

Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 

This visible nature, and this common world, 

Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 



Lurte in the legend told my infant years 

Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 

For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place : 

Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans, 

And spirits ; and delightedly believes 

Divinities, being himself divine. 

The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 

The fair humanities of old religion. 

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, 

That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 

Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanish'd. 

They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 

But still the heart doth need a language, still 

Doth the old instinct bring back the old names, 

And to yon starry world they now are gone, 

Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 

With man as with their friend ; * and to the lover 

Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 

Shoot influence down : and even at this day 

'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great. 

And Venus who brings every thing that's fair! 

THEKLA. 

And if this be the science of the stars, 

I too, with glad and zealous industry. 

Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith. 

It is a gentle and affectionate thought, 

That in immeasurable heights above us. 

At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven, 

With sparkling stars for flowers. 

COUNTESS. 

Not only roses, 
But thorns too hath the heaven ; and well for you 
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate : 
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune, 
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces. 

MAX. 

Soon will his gloomy empire reach its close. 

Blest be the General's zeal : into the laurel 

Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting 

Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish 

Will have remain'd for his great heart ! Enough 

Has he perform'd for glory, and can now 

Live for himself and his. To his domains 

Will he retire ; he has a stately seat 

Of fairest view at Gitschin ; Reichenberg, 

And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly — 

Even to the foot of the huge mountains here 

Stretches the chase and covers of his forests : 

His ruling passion, to create the splendid. 

He can indulge without restraint ; can give 

A princely patronage to every. art. 

And to all worth a sovereign's protection. 

Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses — 

COUNTESS. 

Yet I would have you look, and look again. 
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend ! 
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it, 
THat you should woo and win her vdth the sword. 



O, that the sword could win her ! 

COUNTESS. 



What was that ? 



* No more of talk, where god or angel guest 
With man, as with his friend familiar, used 
To sit indulgent. Paradise Lost, B. IX. 

149 



140 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Did you hear nothing ? Seem'd, as if I heard 
Tumult and larum in the banquet-room. 

[Exit Countess. 



SCENE V. 
Thekla and Max. Piccolomini. 

THEKLA (as soon as the Countess is out of sight, in a 

quick low voice to Piccolomini). 
Don't trust them ! They are false ! 

MAX. 

Impossible ! 

THEKLA. 

Trust no one here but me. I saw at once, 
They had a purpose. 

MAX. 

Purpose I but what purpose ? 
And how can we be instrumental to it ? 

THEKLA. 

I know no more than you ; but yet believe me : 
There 's some design in this ! To make us happy, 
To realize our union — trust me, love ! 
They but pretend to wish it. 

MAX. 

But these Tertskys 

Why use we them at all ? Why not your mother ? 
Excellent creature ! she deserves from us 
A full §nd filial confidence. 

THEKLA. 

She doth love you, 
Doth rate you high before all others — but — 
But such a secret — she would never have 
The courage to conceal it from my father. 
For her own peace of mind we must preserve it 
A secret from her too. 

MAX. 

Why any secret ? 
I love not secrets. Mark, what I will do. 
I '11 throw me at your father's feet — let him 
Decide upon my fortunes ! — He is true, 
He wears no mask — ^he hates all crooked ways — 
He is so good, so noble ! 

THEKLA (falls on his neck). 
Thai are you ! 

MAX. 

You knew him only since this morn, but I 
Have lived ten years already in his presence. 
And who knows whether in this very moment 
He is not merely waiting for us both 
To own our loves, in order to unite us ? 

You are silent ? 

You look at me with such a hopelessness ! 
What have you to object against your father ? 

THEKLA. 

I ? Nothing. Only he 's so occupied — 
He has no leisure time to think about 
The happiness of us two. [Taking his hand tenderly. 

Follow me ! 
Let us not place too great a faith in men. 
These Tertskys — we will still be grateful to them 
For every kindness, but not trust them further 
Than they deserve ; — and in all else rely — 
On our own hearts ! 

MAX. 

O ! shall we e'er be happy ? 



THEKLA. 

Are we not happy now ? Art thou not mine ? 

Am I not thine ? There lives within my soul 

A lofty courage — 'tis love gives it me ! 

I ought to be less open — ought to hide 

My heart more from thee — so decorum dictates : 

But where in this place couldst thou seek for truth. 

If in my mouth thou didst not find it ? 



SCENE VI. 



To them enters the Countess Tertskv. 

countess (in a pressing manner). 

Come ! 
My husband sends me for you — It is now 
The latest moment. 

[They not appearing to attend to what she says, 
she steps between them. 
Part you ! 

THEKLA. 

O, not yet ! 
It has been scarce a moment. 
countess. 

Ay ! Then time 
Flies swiftly with your Highness, Princess niece ! 

MAX. 

There is no hurry, aunt. 

COUNTESS. 

Away! away! 
The folks begin to miss you. Twice already 
His father has ask'd for him. 

THEKLA. 

Ha ! his father ! 

COUNTESS. 

You understand that, niece ! 

THEKLA. 

Why needs he 
To go at all to that society ? 
'Tis not his proper company. They may 
Be worthy men, but he 's too young for them. 
In brief, he suits not such society. 

COUNTESS. 

You mean, you 'd rather keep him wholly here ? 

THEKLA (ivith energy). 
Yes ! you have hit it, aunt ! That is my meaning. 
Leave him here wholly ! Tell the company — 

COUNTESS. 

What ? have you lost your senses, niece ? — 
Count, you remember the conditions. Come ! 

MAX. (to Thekla). 
Lady, I must obey. Farewell, dear lady ! 
[Thekla turns away from him with a quick motion. 
What say you then, dear lady ? 

thekla (without looking at him). 

Nothing. Go I 

MAX. 

Can I, when you are angry 

[He draws up to her, their eyes meet, she stands 
silent a moment, then throws herself into his 
arms ; he presses her fast to his heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Oflf! Heavens ! if any one should come ! 

Hark ! What 's that noise ! it comes this way. OflT! 

Max. tears himself away out of her arms, and goes. 
The Countess accompanies him. Thekla 
150 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



141 



follows him with her eyes at first, walks rest- 
lessly across the room, then stops, and remains 
standing, lost in thought. A guitar lies on the 
table, she seizes it as by a sudden emotion, and 
after she has played a while an irregular and 
melancholy symphony, she falls gradually into 
the music, and sings. 

THEKLA (plays and sings). 
The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar, 
The damsel paces along the shore ; 
The billows they tumble with might, with might ; 
And she flings out her voice to the darksome night ; 

Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ; 
The world it is empty, the heart will die. 
There 's nothing to wish for beneath the sky : 
Thou Holy One, call thy child away ! 
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 

Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.* 



SCENE vn. 

Countess {returns), Thekla. 

COUNTESS. 

Fie, lady niece ! to throw yourself upon him, 

Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it, 

And so must be flung after him ! For you, 

Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought. 

It had been more beseeming to have shown yourself 

More chary of your person. 

THEKLA (rising). 

And what mean you ? 



* I found it not in my power to translate this song with literal 
fideHty, preserving at the same time the Alcaic Movement ; and 
have therefore added the original with a prose translation. Some 
of my readers may be more fortunate. 

THEKLA (spielt und singt). 
Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn. 
Das Msgdiein wandelt an Ufers Griin, 
Es bricht sich die Welle mit Macht, mit Macht, 
Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre Nacht, 

Das Auge von Weinen getriibet : 
Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer, 
Und welter giebt sie dem Wunsche nichts mehr. 
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zuriick, 
Ich babe genossen das irdische Gluck, 

Ich habe gelebt und geleibet. 

LITERAL TRANSLATION. 

THEKLA (plays and sings). 
The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks 
to and fro on the green of the shore ; the wave breaks with 
might, with might, and she sings out into the dark night, her 
eye discolored with weeping : the heart is dead, the world is 
empty, and fwrther gives it nothing more to the wish. Thou Holy 
One, cflli thy child home. T have enjoyed the happiness of this 
world, I have lived and have loved. 

I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which 
the author of "The Tale of Rosamund Gray and Blind Mar- 
garet" has favored me, and which appears to me to have caught 
the happiest manner of our old ballads. 

The clouds are blackening, the storms threat'ning. 

The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan ; 
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching. 
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone. 
Her eye upward roving : 
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely. 

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss ; 
To thy heaven. Holy One, take home thy little one. 
I have partaken of all earth's bliss, 
Both living and loving. 



COUNTESS. 

I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten 
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance 
That never once occurr'd to you. 

THEKLA. 

What then ? 

COUNTESS. 

That you're the daughter of the Prince, Duke 
Friedland. 

THEKLA. 

Well — and what farther ? 

COUNTESS 

What ? a pretty question ! 

THEKLA. 

He was horn that which we have but become. 
He 's of an ancient Lombard family 
Son of a reigning princess. 

COUNTESS. ' 

Are you dreaming ? 
Talking in sleep ? An excellent jest, forsooth ! 
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him 
To honor with his hand the richest heiress 
In Europe. 

THEKLA. 

That will not be necessary. 

COUNTESS. 

Methinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard. 

THEKLA. 

His father loves him : Count Octavio 
Will interpose no difficulty 

COUNTESS. 

His! 
His father ! His ! but yours, niece, what of yours? 

THEKLA. 

Why I begin to think you fear his father, 
So anxiously you hide it from the man ! 
His father, his, I mean. 

COUNTESS (looks at her as scrutinizing). 
Niece, you are false. 

THEKLA. 

Are you then wounded ? O, be friends with me ! 

COUNTESS. 

You hold your game for won already. Do not 
Triumph too soon ! — 

THEKLA (interrupting her, and attempting to soothe 
her). 
Nay, now, be friends with me 

COUNTESS. 

It is not yet so far gone. 

THEKLA. 

I believe you. 

COUNTESS. 

Did you suppose your father had laid out 

His most important life in toils of war. 

Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss, 

Had banish'd slumber from his tent, devoted 

His noble head to care, and for this only, 

To make a happier pair of you ? At length 

To draw you from your convent, and conduct 

In easy triumph to your arms the man 

That chanced to please your eyes ! All this, methinks. 

He might have purchased at a cheaper rate. 

THEKLA. 

That which he did not plant for me might yet 
Bear me fair fruitage of its OAvn accord. 
And if my friendly and affectionate fate, 

151 



A2 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Out of his fearful and enormous being, 
Will but prepare the joys of life for me — 

COUNTESS. 

Thou see'st it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes. 
Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art. 
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepp'd, 
For no espousals dost thou find the walls 
Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing. 
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or think'st thou 
That all these thousands are here congregated 
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding ! 
Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought, 
Thy mother's eye in tears : upon the balance 
Lies the great destiny of all our house. 
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling, 

thrust it far behind thee ! Give thou proof, 
Thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty — his 
Who where he moves creates the wonderful. 
Not to herself the woman must belong, 
Annex'd and bound to alien destinies : 

But she performs the best part, she the wisest. 
Who can transmute the alien into self. 
Meet and disarm necessity by choice ; 
And what must be, take freely to her heart. 
And bear and foster it with mother's love. 

THEKLA. 

Such ever was my lesson in the convent. 

1 had no loves, no wishes, knew myself 
Only as his — his daughter, his, the Mighty ! 
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me 
From the far distance, waken'd in my soul 
JVo other thought than this — I am appointed 
To offer up myself in passiveness to him. 

COUNTESS. 

That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it, 
I and thy mother gave thee the example. 

THEKLA. 

My fate hath shown me him, to whom behoves it 
That I should offer up myself In gladness 
Him will I follow. 

COUNTESS 

Not thy fate hath shown him ! 
Thy heart, say rather — 'twas thy heart, my child! 

THEKLA. 

Fate hath no voice but the heart's impulses. 
I am all his ! His present — his alone, 
Is this new life, which lives in me ? He hath 
A right to his own creature. What was I 
Ere his fair love infused a soul into me ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou wouldst oppose thy father then, should he 
Have otherwise determined with thy person ? 

[Thekla remains silent. The Countess continues. 
Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking ? — Child, 
His name is Friedland. 

THEKLA. 

My name too is Friedland. 
He shall have found a genuine daughter in me. 

COUNTESS. 

What ! he has vanquish'd all impediment, 
And in the wilful mood of his own daughter 
Shall a new struggle rise for him ? Child ! child ! 
As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone ; 
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child, 
I will not frighten thee. To that extreme, 
I trust, it ne'er shall come. His will is yet 



Unknown to me : 'tis possible his aims 
May have the same direction as thy wish. 
But this can never, never be his will 
That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes. 
Should 'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden ; 
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself 
Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever 
Be destined to await him, yet, with sacrifices 
The highest love can bring, must pay for it. 

[Exit Countess. 

THEKLA {who during the last speech had leen standing 

evidently lost in her reflections). 
I thank thee for the hint. It turns 
My sad presentiment to certainty. 
And it is so ! — Not one friend have we here, 
Not one true heart ! we 've nothing but ourselves ! 

she said rightly — no auspicious signs 
Beam on this covenant of our affections. 
This is no theatre, where hope abides : 

The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here ; 
And Love himself, as he were arm'd in steel, 
Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death. 

[Music from the banquet-room is heard. 
There 's a dark spirit walking in our house, 
And swiftly will the Destiny close on us. 
It drove me hither from my calm asylum, 
It mocks my soul with charming witchery, 
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape ; 

1 see it near, I see it nearer floating, 

It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power — 
And lo ! the abyss — and thither am I moving — 
I have no power within me not to move ! 

[The music from the banquet-room becomes louder. 
O when a house is doom'd in fire to perish. 
Many and dark, heaven drives his clouds together. 
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights, 
Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms, 
*And fiends and angels mingling in their fury, 
Sling fire-brands at the burning edifice. 

[Exit Thekla. 



SCENE vni. 



A large Saloon lighted up with festal Splendor ; in 
the midst of it, and in the Centre of the Stage, a 
Table richly set out, at which eight Generals are 
sitting, among whom are Octavio Piccolomini, 
Tertsky, and Maradas. Right and left of this, 
but farther back, two other Tables, at each of which 
six Persons are placed. The Middle Door, which 
is standing open, gives to the Prospect a fourth 
Table, with the same Number of Persons. More 
forward stands the Sideboard. The whole front of 
the Stage is kept open for the Pages and Servants in 
waiting. All is in motion. The Band of Music 
belonging to Tertsky 's Regiment march across the 
Stage, and draw up round the Tables. Before they 
are quite off from the Front of the Stage, Max. 
Piccolomini appears, Tertsky advances towards 



* There are few, who will not have taste enough to laugh 
at the two concluding lines of this soliloquy; and still fewer. I 
would fain hope, who would not have been more disposed to 
shudder, had I given a faithful translation. For the readeri 
of German I have added the original ■ 

Blind-wiithend schleudert selbst der Gott der Freude 
Den Pechkranz in das brennende Gebeeude. 
152 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



143 



him imth a Paper, Isolani comes up to meet him 
with a Beaker or Service-Cup. 

Tertsky, Isolani, Max. Piccolomini. 

ISOLANI. 

Here brother, what we love ! Why, where hast been ? 

Off to thy place— quick ! Tertsky here has given 

Tlie mother's holiday wine up to free booty. 

Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castle. 

Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving 

At yonder table ducal crowns in shares ; 

There Sternberg's lands and chattels are put up, 

With Eggenberg's, Stawata's, Lichtenstein's, 

And all the great Bohemian feodalities. 

Be nimble, lad ! and something may turn up 

For thee — who knows ? off— to thy place ! quick ! 

march ! 
riEFENBACH and Goetz {call out from the second and 
third tables). 
Count Piccolomini ! 

TERTSKY. 

Stop, ye shall have him in an instant. — Read 
This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth. 
The wording satisfies you. They've all read it, 
Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe 
His individual signature. 

MAX. (reads). 
" Ingratis servire nefas." 

ISOLANL 

That sounds to my ears very much like Latin, 
And being interpreted, pray what may 't mean ? 

TERTSKY. 

No honest man will serve a thankless master. 

MAX. 

" Inasmuch as our supreme Commander, the illus- 
trious Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the man- 
ifold affronts and grievances which he has received, 
had expressed his determination to quit the Emperor, 
but on our unanimous entreaty has graciously con- 
sented to remain still with the army, and not to part 
from us without our approbation thereof, so we, col- 
lectively and each in particular, in the stead of an oath 
personally taken, do hereby oblige ourselves — like- 
wise by him honorably and faithfully to hold, and in 
nowise whatsoever from him to part, and to be ready 
to shed for his interests the last drop of our blood, so 
far, namely, as our oath to the Emperor will permit. 
{These last words are repeated by Isolani.) In testi- 
mony of which we subscribe our names." 

TERTSKY. 

Now ! — are you willing to subscribe this paper ? 

ISOLANL 

Why should he not ? All officers of honor 
Can ''o It, ay, must do it. — Pen and ink here ! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay, let it rest till after meal. 

ISOLANI {drawing Max. along). 
Come, Max. 
[Both seat themselves at their table. 



SCENE IX. 

Tertsky, Neumann. 
TERTSKY {beckons to Neumann who is uniting at the 

side-table, and steps forward with him to the edge of 

the stage). 
Have you the copy with you, Neumann ? Give it. 
It may be changed for the other ! 

NEUMANN. 

I have copied it 
Letter by letter, line by line ; no eye 
Would e'er discover other difference. 
Save only the omission of that clause. 
According to your Excellency's order. 

tertsky. 
Right ! lay it yonder, and away with this — 
It has perform'd its business-^to the fire with it — 
[Neumann lays the copy on the table, and steps 
hack again to the side-table. 



SCENE X. 



Illo {co7n£s out from the second chamber), Tertsky 

ILLO. 

How goes it with young Piccolomini ? 

tertsky. 
All right, I think. He has started no objection. 

ILLO. 

He is the only one I fear about — 

He and his father. Have an eye on both ! 

tertsky. 
How looks it at your table ? you forget not 
To keep them warm and stirring ? 

ILLO. 

O, quite cordial. 
They are quite cordial in the scheme. We have them. 
And 'tis as I predicted too. Already 
It is the talk, not merely to maintain 
The Duke in station. " Since we 're once for all 
Together and unanimous, why not," 
Says Montecuculi, " ay, why not onward, 
And make conditions vdth the Emperor 
There in his own Vienna ?" Trust me, Count, 
Were it not for these said Piccolomini, 
We might have spared ourselves the cheat. 



tertsky. 



How goes it there ? Hush ! 



And Butler ? 



SCENE XI. 



To them enter Butler from the second table. 

BUTLER. 

Don't disturb yourselves. 
Field Marshal, I have understood you perfectly. 
Good luck be to the scheme ; and as for me, 

[With an air of mystery. 
You may depend upon me. 

ILLO {with vivacity). 

May we, Butler ? 

BUTLER. 

With or vdthout the clause, all one to me ! 
You understand me ? My fidelity 
The Duke may put to any proof— I'm with him ! 
Tell him so ! I 'm the Emperor's officer, 

153 



U 



144 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As long as 'tis his pleasure to remain 

The Emperor's general ! and Friedland's servant, 

As soon as it shall please him to become 

His own lord. 

TERTSKY. 

You would make a good exchange. 
No stem economist, no Ferdinand, 
Is he to whom you plight your services. 
BUTLER (wilh a haughty look). 
I do not put up my fidelity 
To sale, Count Tertsky ! Half a year ago 
I would not have advised you to have made me 
An overture to that, to which I now 
Offer myself of my own free accord. — 
But that is past! and to the Duke, Field Marshal, 
I bring myself together with my regiment. 
And mark you, 'tis my humor to believe. 
The example which I give will not remain 
Without an influence. 

ILLO. 

Who is ignorant, 
That the whole army look to Colonel Butler, 
As to a light that moves before them ? 



Ey? 

Then I repent me not of that fidelity 
Which for the length of forty years I held, 
If in my sixtieth year my old good name 
Can purchase for me a revenge so full. 
Start not at what I say, sir Generals ! 
My real motives — they concern not you. 
And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect 
That this your game had crook'd my judgment — or 
That fickleness, quick blood, or such like cause. 
Has driven the old man from the track of honor. 
Which he so long had trodden. — Come, my friends ! 
I 'm not thereto determined with less firmness, 
Because I know and have look'd steadily 
At that on which I have determined. 



And speak roundly, what are we to deem you ? 



A friend ! I give you here my hand ! I 'm your's 

With all I have. Not only men, but money 

Will the Duke want. — Go, tell him, sirs ! 

I 've earn'd and laid up somewhat in his service. 

I lend it him ; and is he my survivor, 

It has been already long ago bequeath'd him. 

He is my heir. For me, I stand alone 

Here in the world ; naught know I of the feeling 

That binds the husband to a wife and children. 

My name dies with me, my existence ends. 

ILLO. 

'Tis not your money that he needs — a heart 
Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down 
millions! 

BUTLER. 

I came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland 
To Prague — and with a master, whom I buried. 
From lowest stable duty I climb'd up, 
Such was the fate of war, to this high rank, 
The plaything of a whimsical good fortune. 
And Wallenstein too is a child of luck ; 
Hove a fortune that is like my own. 



All powerful souls have kindred with each other. 

BUTLER. 

This is an awful moment ! to the brave, 
To the determined, an auspicious moment. 
The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine 
To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadt, 
That Mansfeld, wanted but a longer life 
To have mark'd out with his good sword a lordship 
That should reward his courage. Who of these 
Equals our Friedland ? there is nothing, nothing 
So high, but he may set the ladder to it ! 

TERTSKY 

That's spoken like a man! 

BUTLER. 

Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian — 
I '11 be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesly. 
Come, to the company! 

TERTSKY. 

Where is the master of the cellar ? Ho ! 

Let the best wines come up. Ho ! cheerly, boy ! 

Luck comes to-day, so give her hearty welcome. 

[Exeunt, each to his table- 



SCENE XII. 



The Master of the Cellar advancing vnth Neumann, 
Servants passing backwards and forwards. 
master of the cellar. 
The best wdne ! O : if my old mistress, his lady 
mother, could but see these wild goings on, she would 
turn herself round in her grave. Yes, yes, sir officer . 
'tis all down the hill with this noble house ! no end, 
no moderation ! And this marriage with the Duke's 
sister, a splendid connexion, a very splendid connex- 
ion ! but I will tell you, sir officer, it looks no good. 

NEUMANN. 

Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the 
whole prospect is in bud and blossom ! 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

You think so ? — ^Well, well ! much may be said 
on that head. 

FIRST SERVANT ifiomes). 

Burgundy for the fourth table. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

Now, sir lieutenant, if this an't the seventietTi 
flask— 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Why, the reason is, that German lord, Tiefen- 
bach, sits at that table. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR {continuing his discourse 
to Neumann). 

They are soaring too high. They would rival 
kings and electors in their pomp and splendor; and 
wherever the Duke leaps, not a minute does my gra- 
cious master, the count, loiter on the brink \to the 

Servants.) — What do you stand there listening for ? I 
will let you know you have legs presently. Off"! see 
to the tables, see to the flasks ! Look there ! Count 
Palfi has an empty glass before him ! 
RUNNER (comes). 

The great service-cup is wanted, sir; that rich 
gold cup with the Bohemian arms on it. The Count 
says you know which it is. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

Ay ! that was made for Frederick's coronation by 
154 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



145 



the artist William — there was not such another prize 
in the whole booty at Prague. 

RUNNER. 

The same ! — a health is to go round in him. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR {shaking Ms head while he 
fetches and rinses the cups). 
This will be something for the tale-bearers— this 
goes to Viemia, 

NEUMANN. 

Permit me to look at it. — Well, this is a cup in- 
deed! How heavy! as well as it may be, being all 
gold.— And what neat things are embossed on it! 
how natural and elegant they look! — There, on 
that first quarter, let me see. That proud Amazon 
there on horseback, she that is taking a leap over 
the crosier and mitres, and carries on a wand a hat 
together with a banner, on which there 's a goblet 
represented. Can you tell me what all this signifies ? 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

The woman whom you see here on horseback, is 
the Free Election of the Bohemian Crown. That is 
signified by the round hat, and by that fiery steed on 
which she is riding. The hat is the pride of man ; 
for he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and 
emperors is no free man. 

NEWMANN. 

But what is the cup there on the banner ? 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

The cup signifies the freedom of the Bohemian 
Church, as it was in our forefathers' times. Our fore 
fathers in the wars of the Hussites forced from the 
Pope this noble privilege : for the Pope, you know, 
will not grant the cup to any layman. Your true 
Moravian values nothing beyond the cup ; it is his 
costly jewel, and has cost the Bohemians their precious 
blood in many and many a battle. 

NEWMANN. 

And vi^hat says that chart that hangs in the air 
there, over it all ? 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

That signifies the Bohemian letter-royal, which we 
forced from the Emperor Rudolph — a precious, never 
to be enough valued parchment, that secures to the 
new church the old privileges of free ringing and 
open psalmody. But since he of Steirmark has ruled 
over us, that is at an end ; and after the battle at 
Prague, in which Count Palatine Frederick lost crown 
and empire, our faith hangs upon the pulpit and the 
altar — and our brethren look at their homes over 
their shoulders; but the letter-royal the Emperor 
himself cut to pieces with his scissars. 

NEUMANN. 

Why, my good master of the cellar ! you are deep 
read in the chronicles of your country ! 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

So were my forefathers, and for that reason were 
the minstrels, and served under Procopius and Ziska. 
Peace be with their ashes ! Well, well ! they fought 
(or a good cause though — There ! carry it up ! 

NEWMANN. 

Stay! let me but look at this second quarter. Look 
there ! That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial 
Counsellors, Martinitz and Stawata, were hurled 
down head over heels. 'Tis even so! there stands 
Coimt Thur, who commands it. 

[Runner takes the service-cup and goes off with it. 



MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

let me never more hear of that day. It was the 
three-and-twentieth of May, in the year of our Lord 
one thousand, six hundred, and eighteen. It seems 
to me as it were but yesterday — from that unlucky 
day it all began, all the heart-aches of the country. 
Since that day it is now sixteen years, and there has 
never once been peace on the earth. 

[Health drunk aloud at the second table 
The Prince of Weimar ! Hurra ! 

[At the third and fourth table 
Long live Prince William ! Long live Duke Bernard ! 
Hurra! 

[Music strikes up 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Hear 'em ! Hear 'em ! Wliat an uproar ! 

SECOND SERVANT {comes in running). 
Did you hear ? They have drunk the prince of 
Weimar's health. 

THIRD SERVANT. 

The Swedish Chief Commander ! 

FIRST SERVANT {speaking at the same time). 
The Lutheran ! 

SECOND SERVANT. 

Just before, when Count Deodate gave out the 
Emperor's health, they were all as mum as a nibbling 
mouse. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

Po, po! When the wine goes in, strange things 
come out. A good servant hears, and hears not ! — 
You should be nothing but eyes and feet, except 
when you are called to. 

SECOND SERVANT. 

[To the Runner, to whom he gives secretly a flask 
of wine, keeping his eye on the Master of the 
Cellar, standing between him and the Runner. 
Quick, Thomas ! before the Master of the Cellar 
runs this way — 't is a flask of Frontignac ! — Snapped 
it up at the third table — Canst go off with it ? 
RUNNER {hides it in his pocket). 
All right! 

[Exit the Second Servant. 
THIRD SERVANT {aside to the First). 
Be on the hark, Jack ! that we may have right 
plenty to tell to father Quivoga — He will giv« us 
right plenty of absolution in return for it. 

FIRST SERVANT. 

For that very purpose I am always having some- 
thing to do behind Illo's chair. — He is the man for 
speeches to make you stare with ! 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR {tO NeUMANN). 

Who, pray, may that swarthy man be, he with the 
cross, that is chatting so confidentially with Esterhats ? 

NEWMANN. 

Ay ! he too is one of those to whom they confide 
too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is 
he. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR {impatiently). 

Spaniard! Spaniard! — I tell you, friend, nothing 
good comes of those Spaniards. All these outlandish 
fellows* are little better than rogues. 



* There is a humor in the original which cannot be given in 
the translation. " Die ^eZscAere alle," etc. which word in clas- 
sical German means the Italians alone ; but in its first sense, 
and at present in the vulgar use of the word, signifies foreigners 
in general. Our word walnuts, I suppose, means outlandish 
uuta—Wallae nuces, in German "Welsche Niisse." T. 

155 



146 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



NEWMANN. 

Fy, fy ! you should not say so, friend. There are 
among them our very best generals, and those on 
whom the Duke at this moment relies the most. 

MASTER OF THE CELLAR. 

[Taking the flask out of the Runner's pocket. 
My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket. 
[Tertsky hurries in, fetches away the paper, and 
calls to a Servant for Pen and Ink, and goes to 
the hack of the Stage. 
MASTER OF THE CELLAR {to the Servants). 
The Lieutenant-General stands up.-^-Be on the 
watch. — Now ! They break up. — Ofl^ and move back 
the forms. 

[They rise at all the tables, the Servants hurry off 
the front of the Stage to the tables ; part of the 
guests come forxmrd. 



SCENE XIII. 



cedence here. (Octavio runs over the Paper vnth 
apparent indifference. Tertsky watches him at some 
distance). 

GOETz [to Tertsky) 
Noble Comit ! with your permission — Good night. 

tertsky. 
Where 's the hurry ? Come, one other composing 
draught. {To the servants) — Ho! 

GOETZ. 

Excuse me — an't able. 



TERTSKY. 
GOETZ. 



Octavio Piccolomini enters into conversation with 
Maradas, and both place themselves quite on the 
edge of the Stage on one side of the Proscenium. 
On the side directly opposite. Max. Piccolomini, by 
himself, lost in thought, and taking no part in any 
thing that is goi7ig forward. The middle space be- 
tween both, but rather more distant from the edge of 
the Stage, is filed up by Butler, Isolani, Goetz, 

TiEFENBACH, and KOLATTO. 

isolani {while the Company is coming forward). 
Good night, good night, Kolatto ! Good night, Lieu- 
tenant-General ! — ^I should rather say, good morning 

GOETZ {to TiEFENBACH). 

Noble brother ! {making the usual compliment after 
meals). 

TIEFENBACH. 

Ay! 'twas a royal feast indeed. 

GOETZ. 

Yes, my Lady Countess understands these matters. 
Her mother-in-law, Heaven rest her soul, taught her! 
— Ah! that was a housewife for you! 

TIEFENBACH. 

There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting 
out a table. 

OCTAVIO {aside to Maradas). 

Do me the favor to talk to me — talk of what you 
will— or of nothing. Only preserve the appearance 
at least of talking. I would not wish to stand by 
myself, and yet I conjecture that there will be goings 
on here worthy of our attentive observation. {He 
continues to fix his eye on the whole following scene). 
isolani {on the point of going). 

Lights! lights! 

tertsky {advancing vnth the Paper to Isolani). 

Noble brother; two minutes longer! — Here is 
something to subscribe. 

ISOLANL 

Subscribe as much as you like — but you must ex- 
cuse me from reading it. 

TERTSKY. 

There is no need. It is the oath, which you have 
already read. — Only a few marks of your pen ! 

[Isolani hands over the Paper to Octavio respect- 
fully. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay, nay, first come first seived. There is no pre- 



A thimble-full! 
Excuse me. 

TIEFENBACH {sitS down). 

Pardon me, nobles ! — This standing does not agree 
with me. 

TERTSKY. 

Consult only your own convenience, General ! 

TIEFENBACH. 

Clear at head, sound in stomach— only my legs 
won't cany me any longer. 

ISOLANI {pointing at his corpulence). 
Poor legs ! how shoidd they ? such an unmerciful 
load ! (Octavio subscribes Ids name, and reaches over 
the Paper to Tertsky, who gives it to IsoLani ; and 
he goes to the table to sign his name). 

TIEFENBACH. 

'Twas that war in Pomerania that first brought it 
on. Out in all weathers — ice and snow — no help for 
it. — ^I shall never get the better of it all the days of 
my life. 

GOETZ. 

Why, in simple verity, your Swede makes no nice 
inquiries about the season. 

TERTSKY {observing Isolani, whose hand trembles 
excessively, so that he can scarce direct his pen). Have 
you had that ugly complaint long, noble brother? — 
Dispatch it. 

ISOLANL 

The sins of youth! I have already tried the cha- 
lybeate waters. Well — I must bear it. 

[Tehtsky gives the Paper to Maradas ; he steps 
to the table to subscribe. 

OCTAVIO {advancing to Butler). 
You are not over-fond of the orgies of Bacchus, 
Colonel ! I have observed it. You would, I think, 
find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of a 
battle, than of a feast. 

BUTLER. 

I must confess, 'tis not in my way. 

OCTAVIO {stepping nearer to him friendlily). 

Nor in mine either, I can assure you ; and I am 
not a little glad, my much-honored Colonel Butler, that 
we agree so well in our opinions. A half-dozen good 
friends at most, at a small round table, a glass of 
genuine Tokay, open hearts, and a rational conversa- 
tion — that's my taste ! 

BUTLER. 

And mine too, when it can be had. 

[The paper comes to Tiefenbach, who glances 
over it at the same time vnth Goetz and 
Kolatto. Maradas in the mean time re- 
turns to Octavio. All this takes place, the 
conversation with Butler proceeding un- 
interrupted. 

156 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



147 



ocTAVio {introducing Maradas to Butler. 
Don Balthasar Maradas ! likewise a man of our 
stamp, and long ago your admirer. [Butler hows. 
OCTAVIO {continuing). 
You are a stranger here — 't was but yesterday you 
arrived — you are ignorant of the ways and means 
here. 'T is a wretched place — I know, at our age, 
one loves to be snug and quiet — What if you moved 
your lodgings ? — Come, be my visitor. (Butler makes 
a low bow). Nay, without compliment ! — For a friend 
like you, I have still a corner remaining. 
BUTLER {coldly). 
Your obliged humble servant, my Lord Lieu- 
tenant-General ! 

[The paper comes to Butler, who goes to the table 
to subscribe it. The front of the stage is va- 
cant, so that both the Pic.colominis, each on 
the side where he had been from the com- 
mencement of the scene, remain alone. 
OCTAVIO (after having some time watched his son in 
silence, advances somewhat nearer to him). You were 
long absent from us, friend ! 

MAX. 

I urgent business detained me. 

OCTAVIO. 

And, I observe, you are still absent ! 

MAX. 

You know this crowd and bustle always makes 
me silent. 

OCTAVIO (advancing still nearer). 
May I be permitted to ask what the business was 



that detained you ? TertsJcy knows it without 
asking! 

MAX. 

What does Tertsky know ? 

OCTAVIO. 

He was the only one who did not .miss you. 
ISOLANI (who has been attending to them from some 
distance, steps up). 
Well done, father ! Rout out his baggage i Beat 
up his quarters! there is something there that should 
not be. 

TERTSKY (with the paper). 
Is there none wanting ? Have the whole sub- 
scribed ? 

OCTAVIO. 

All. 

TERTSKY (coiling oloud). 
Ho ! Who subscribes ? 

BUTLER (to Tertsky). 
Count the names. There ought to be just thirty. 

TERTSKY. 

Here is a cross. 

tiefenbach. 
That 's my mark. 

ISOLANL 

He cannot write ; but his cross is a good cross, 
and is honored by Jews as well as Christians. 
OCTAVIO (presses on to Max.). 
Come, General ! let us go. It is late. 

TERTSKY. 

One Piccolomini only has signed. 

ISOLANI (pointing to Max.). 

Look! that is your man, that statue there, who 
has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the whole 
evening. (Max. receives the paper from Tertsky, 
which he looks upon vacantly). 



SCENE XIV. 

To these enter Illo from the inner room. He has in 
his hand the golden service-cup, and is extremely 
distempered with drinking : Goetz and Butler 
follow him, endeavoring to keep him back. 

ILLO. 

What do you want ? Let me go. 

goetz and butler. 
Drink no more, Illo ! For heaven's sake, drink no 
more. 

ILLO (goes up to OcTAVio, and shakes him cordially 
by the hand, and then drinks). 
Octavio ! I bring this to you ! Let all grudge be 
drowned in this friendly bowl ! I know well enough, 
ye never loved me — Devil take me ! — and I never 
loved you I — I am always even with people in that 
way ! — Let what 's past be past — that is, you under- 
stand — forgotten ! I esteem you infinitely. (Em- 
bracing him repeatedly). You have not a dearer 
friend on earth than I — but that you know. The 
fellow that cries rogue to you calls me villain — and 
I '11 strangle him ! — my dear friend ! 

TERTSKY (whispering to Mm). 
Art in thy senses ? For heaven's sake, Illo, think 
where you are ! 

iLLO (aloud). 
What do you mean ?— There are none but friends 
here, are there ? (Looks round the whole circle with a 
jolly and triumphant air.) Not a sneaker among us, 
thank Heaven ! 

TERTSKY (to BuTLER, eagerly). 
Take him off with you, force him off, I entreat 
you, Butler ! 

BUTLER (to Illo). 
Field Marshal ! a word with you. (Leads him to 
the sideboard.) 

ILLO (cordially). 
A thousand for one ; Fill — Fill it once more up 
to the brim. — To this gallant man's health ! 
ISOLANI (to Max., who all the while has been staring 
on the paper with fixed but vacant eyes). 
Slow and sure, my noble brother ? — Hast parsed 
it all yet ? — Some words yet to go through ? — Ha ! 
MAX. (waking as from a dream). 
What am I to do ? 

TERTSKY, and at the same time isolanl 
Sign your name. (Octavio directs his eyes on him 
with intense anxiety). 

MAX. (returns the paper). 
Let it stay till to-morrow. It is business — to-day I 
am not sufficiently collected. Send it to me to> 
morrow. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay, collect yourself a little. 

ISOLANI. 

Awake, man ! awake ! — Come, thy signature, and 
have done with it ! What ? Thou art the youngest 
in the whole company, and wouldst be wiser than 
all of us together ? Look there ! thy father has 
we have all signed. 

TERTSKY (to OCTAVIO). 

Use your influence. Instruct him. 

OCTAVIO. 

My son is at the age of discretion. 

ILLO (leaves the service-cup on the sideboard). 
What 's the dispute ? 

157 



148 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



TERTSKY. 

He declines subscribing the paper. 

MAX. 

I say, it may as well stay till to-morrow. 

ILLO. 

It cannot stay. We have all subscribed to it — 
and so must you. — You must subscribe. 

MAX. , 

Illo, good night ! 

ILLO. 

No ! You come not off so ! The Duke shall learn 
who are his friends. {All collect round Illo and 
Max.) 

MAX. 

What my sentiments are towards the Duke, the 
Duke knows, every one knows — what need of this 
wild stuff? 

ILLO. 

This is the thanks the Duke gets for his partiality 
to Italians and foreigners. — Us Bohemians he holds 
for little better than dullards — nothing pleases him 
but what 's outlandish. 

TERTSKY {in extreme embarrassment, to the Command- 
ers, who at Illo's words give a sudden start, as 
preparing to resent them). 

It is the wine that speaks, and not his reason. 
Attend not to him, I entreat you. 

ISOLANI {with a hitter laugh). 
Wine invents nothing : it only tattles. 

ILLO. 

He who is not with me is against me. Your tender 
consciences ! Unless they can slip out by a back 

door, by a puny proviso 

TERTSKY {interrupting him). 
He is stark mad — don't listen to him ! 

ILLO {raising his voice to the highest pitch). 
Unless they can slip out by a proviso. — What of 
the proviso ? The devil take this proviso ! 
MAX. (has his attention roused, and looks again into the 
paper). 

What is there here then of such perilous import ? 
You make me curious — I must look closer at it. 
TERTSKY {in a low voice to Illo). 
What are you doing, Illo ? You are ruining us. 

TIEFENBACH {tO KoLATTO). 

Ay, ay ! I observed, that before we sat down to 
supper, it was read differently. 

GOETZ. 

Why, I seemed to think so too. 

ISOLANL 

What do I care for that ? Where there stand other 
names, mine can stand too. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Before supper there was a certain proviso therein, 
t)r short clause concerning our duties to the Em^ 
peror. 

BUTLER {to one of the Commanders). 

For shame, for shame ! Bethink you. What is the 
main business here ? The question now is, whether 
we shall keep our General, or let him retire. One 
must not take these things too nicely and over-scru 
pulously. 

ISOLANI {to one of the Generals). 

Did the Duke make any of these provisoes when 
he gave you your regiment ? 

TERTSKY {to GOETZ). 

Or when he gave you the office of army-pur 
veyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand 
pistoles ! 



He is a rascal who makes us out to be rogues. If 
there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say 
so, — I am his man. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Softly, softly ! 'T was but a word or two. 
MAX. {having read the paper gives it back). 
Till to-morrow, therefore ! 

ILLO {stammering with rage and fury, loses all com' 
mand over himself, and presents the paper to Max. 
with one hand, and his sword in the other). 

Subscribe — Judas ! 

ISOLANI. 

Out upon you, Illo ! 

OCTAVIO, TERTSKY, BUTLER {all together). 

Down with the sword ! 
MAX. {rushes on him suddenly and disarms him, then 

to Count Tertsky). 
Take him off to bed. 

[Max. leaves the stage. Illo cursing and raving is 
held back by some of the Officers, and amidst 
a universal confusion the Curtain drops. 



ACT m. 

SCENE I. 
A Chamber in Piccolomini's Mansion. — It is Night. 

Octavio Piccolomini. a Valet de Chambre, mth 
Lights. 

OCTAVIO. 

And when my son comes in, conduct him hither. 

What is the hour ? 

VALET. 

'T is on the point of morning. 

OCTAVIO. 

Set down the light. We mean not to imdress. 
You may retire to sleep. 

[Exit Valet. Octavio paces, musing, across the 
chamber ; Max. Piccolomini enters unob- 
served, and looks at his father for some mo- 
ments in silence. 

max. 
Art thou offended with me ? Heaven knows 
That odious business was no fault of mine. 
'T is true, indeed, I saw thy signature. 
What thou hadst sanction'd, should not, it might seem, 
Have come amiss to me. But — 't is my nature — 
Thou know'st that in such matters I must follow 
My own light, not another's. 

OCTAVIO {goes up to him, and embraces him). 
Follow it, 

follow it still further, my best son ! 
To-night, dear boy ! it hath more faithfully 
Guided thee than the example of thy father. 

MAX. 

Declare thyself less darkly. 

OCTAVIO. 

I will do so. 
For after what has taken place this night, 
There must remain no secrets 'twixt us two. 

[Both seat themselves* 
Max. Piccolomini ! what thinkest thou of 
The oath that was sent round for signatures ? 

MAX. 

1 hold it for a thing of harmless import. 
Although I love not these set declarations. 

158 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



149 



OCTAVIO. 

And on no other ground hast thou refused 
The signature they fain had wrested from thee ? 

MAX. 

It was a serious business 1 was absent — 

The affair itself seem'd not so urgent to me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion ? 

MAX. 

Suspicion ! what suspicion ? Not the least. 

OCTAVIO. 

Thank thy good Angel, Piccolomini : 

He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss. 

MAX, 

I know not what thou meanest 

OCTAVIO. 

I will tell thee. 
Fain would they have extorted from thee, son, 
The sanction of thy name to villany ; 
Yea, with a single flourish of thy pen. 
Made thee renounce thy duty and thy honor ! 

MAX (rises). 
Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Patience ! Seat yourself Much yet 
Hast thou to hear from me, friend ! — ^hast for years 
Lived in incomprehensible illusion. 
Before thine eyes is Treason drawing out 
As black a web as e'er was spun for venom : 
A power of hell o'erclouds thy understanding. 
I dare no longer stand in silence — dare 
No longer see thee wandering on in darkness, 
Nor pluck the bandage from thine eyes. 

MAX. 

My father ! 
Yet, ere thou speakest, a moment's pause of thought! 
If your disclosures should appear to be 
Conjectures only — and almost I fear 
They will be nothing further — spare them ! I 
Am not in that collected mood at present. 
That I could listen to them quietly. 

OCTAVIO. 

The deeper cause thou hast to hate this light. 

The more impatient cause have I, my son, 

To force it on thee. To the innocence 

And wisdom of thy heart I could have trusted thee 

With calm assurance — but I see the net 

Preparing — and it is thy heart itself 

Alarms me for thine innocence — that secret, 

[Fixing his eye stedfaslly on his son^sface. 
Which thou concealest, forces mine from me. 



[Max. attempts to answer, but hesitates, and casts 
his eyes to the ground embarrassed. 
OCTAVIO (after a pause). 

Know, then, they are duping thee! — a most foul 
game 

With thee and with us all— nay, hear me calmly— 

The Duke even now is playing. He assumes 

The mask, as if he would forsake the army ; 

And in this moment makes he preparations 

That army from the Emperor to steal. 

And carry it over to the enemy ! 

MAX. 

That low Priest's legend I know well, but did not 
Expect to hear it from thy mouth. 

OCTAVIO. 

That mouth, 



From which thou hearest it at this present moment, 
Doth warrant thee that it is no Priest's legend. 



How mere a maniac they supposed the Duke ! 
What, he can meditate ? — the Duke ? — can dream 
That he can lure away full thirty thousand 
Tried troops and true, all honorable soldiers. 
More than a thousand noblemen among them. 
From oaths, from duty, from their honor liu-e them, 
And make, them all unanimous to do 
A deed that brands them scoundrels ? 

OCTAVIO. 

Such a deed, 
With such a front of infamy, the Duke 
Noways desires — what he requires of us 
Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing 
He wishes, but to give the Empire peace. 
And so, because the Emperor hates this peace. 
Therefore the Duke — the Duke will force him to it. 
All parts of the empire will he pacify, 
And for his trouble will retain in payment 
(What he has already in his gripe) — ^Bohemia ! 

MAX. 

Has he, Octavio, merited of us, 

That we — that we should think so vilely of him ? 

OCTAVIO. 

What we would think is not the question here, 
The affair speaks for itself— and clearest proofs ! 
Hear me, my son — 'tis not unknown to thee. 
In what ill credit with the court we stand. 
But little dost thou know, or guess, what tricks. 
What base intrigues, what lying artilices. 
Have been employ'd — for this sole end — to sow 
Mutiny in the camp ! All bands are loosed — 
Loosed all the bands, that link the officer 
To his liege Emperor, all that bind the soldier 
Affectionately to the citizen. 
Lawless he stands, and threateningly beleaguers 
The state he 's bound to guard. To such a height 
'Tis swoln, that at this hour the Emperor 
Before his armies — his ov^ti armies — ^trembles ; 
Yea, in his capital, his palace, fears 
The traitors' poniards, and is meditating 

To hurry off and hide his tender offspring 

Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans — 
No ! from his own troops hide and hurry them ! 

MAX. 

Cease, cease ! thou torturest, shatterest me. I know 
That oft we tremble at an empty terror ; 
But the false phantasm brings a real misery 

OCTAVIO. 

It is no phantasm. An intestine war. 
Of all the most unnatural and cruel. 
Will burst out into flames, if instantly 
We do not fly and stifle it. The Generals 
Are many of them long ago won over; 
The subalterns are vacillating — whole 
Regiments and garrisons are vacillating. 
To foreigners our strong-holds are intrusted ; 
To that suspected Schafgotch is the whole 
Force of Silesia given up : to Tertsky 
Five regiments, foot and horse — to Isolani, 
To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops. 



MAX. 



Likewise to both of us. 



159 



150 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OCTAVIO. 

Because the Duke 
Believes he has secured us— means to lure us 
Still further on by splendid promises. 
To me he portions forth the princedoms, Glatz 
And Sagan ; and too plain I see the angel 
With which he doubts not to catch thee. 



No! no! 



I tell thee— no ! 



OCTAVIO. 

O open yet thine eyes ! 
And to what purpose think'st thou he has call'd us 
Hither to Pilsen ? to avail himself 
Of our advice ? — O when did Friedland ever 
Need our advice ? — Be calm, and listen to me. 
To sell ourselves are we called hither, and 
Decline we that — to be his hostages. 
Therefore doth noble Galas stand aloof; 
Thy father, too, thou wouldst not have seen here, 
If higher duties had not held him fetter'd. 

MAX. 

He makes no secret of it — needs make none — 
That we 're called hither for his sake — ^he owns it. 
He needs our aidance to maintain himself— 
He did so much for us ; and 'lis but fair 
That we too should do somewhat now for him. 

OCTAVIO. 

And know'st thou what it is which we must do ? 
That Illo's drunken mood betray'd it to thee. 
Bethink thyself— what hast thou heard, what seen ? 
The counterfeited paper — the omission 
Of that particular clause, so full of meaning, 
Does it not prove, that they would bind us down 
To nothing good ? 

MAX. 

That coiuiterfeited paper 
Appears to me no other than a trick 
Of Illo's own device. These underhand 
Traders in great men's interests ever use 
To urge and hurry all things to the extreme. 
They see the Duke at variance with the court, 
And fondly think to serve him, when they widen 
The breach irreparably. Trust me, father, 
The Duke knows nothing of all this. 

OCTAVIO. 

It grieves me 
That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter 
A faith so specious ! but I may not spare thee ! 
For this is not a time for tenderness. 
Thou must take measures, speedy ones — must act. 
I therefore will confess to thee, that all 
Which I 've intrusted to thee now — that all 
Which seems to thee so unbelievable, 
That — ^yes, I will tell thee — {a pause) — Max. ! I had 

it all 
From his own mouth — from the Duke's mouth I had it. 

MAX. {in excessive agitation). 
No ! — no ! — never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Himself confided to me 
What I, 'tis true, had long before discover'd 
By other means — himself confided to me, 
That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes; 
And, at the head of the united armies. 
Compel the Emperor 



MAX. 

He is passionate : 
The Court has stung him — he is sore all over 
With injuries and affronts ; and in a moment 
Of irritation, what if he, for once. 
Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me : 
And having construed my astonishment 
Into a scruple of his power, he show'd me 
His written evidences — show'd me letters, 
Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave 
Promise of aidance, and defined the amount. 

MAX. 

It cannot be ! — can not be ! — can not be ! 

Dost thou not see, it cannot ? 

Thou wouldst of necessity have shown him 

Such horror, such deep lothing — that or he 

Had taken thee for his better genius, or 

Thou stood'st not now a living man before me — 

OCTAVIO. 

I have laid open my objections to him, 
Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness ; 
But my abhorrence, the full sentiment 
Of my whole heart — that I have still kept sacred 
To my own consciousness. 

MAX. 

And thou hast been 
So treacherous ? That looks not like my father ! 
I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me 
Evil of him ! much less can I nom do it, 
That thou calumniatest thy own self 

OCTAVIO. 

I did not thrust myself into his secrecy. 

MAX. 

Uprightness merited his confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 

He was no longer worthy of sincerity. 

MAX. 

Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy 
Of thee, Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Gave I him a cause 
To entertain a scruple of my honor ? 

MAX. 

That he did not, evinced his confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 

Dear son, it is not always possible 
Still to preserve that infant purity 
Which the voice teaches in our inmost heart, 
Still in alarum, for ever on the watch 
Against the wiles of wicked men : e'en Virtue 
Will sometimes bear away her outward robes 
Soil'd in the wrestle with Iniquity. 
This is the curse of every evil deed. 
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil. 
I do not cheat my better soul with sophisms : 
I but perform my orders ; the Emperor 
Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy, 
Far better were it, doubtless, if we all 
Obey'd the heart at all times ; but so doing, 
In this our present sojourn with bad men, 
We must abandon many an honest object. 
'Tis now our call to serve the Emperor; 
By what means he can best be served — the heart 
May whisper what it will — this is our call ! 

160 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



151 



It seems a thing appointed, that to-day 
I should not comprehend, not understand thee. 
The Duke, thou say'st, did honestly pour out 
Ills heart to thee, but for an evil purpose ; 
And thou dishonestly hast cheated him 
For a good purpose ! Silence, I entreat thee — 
My friend, thou stealest not from me — 
Let me not lose my father ! 

OCTAVIO {suppressing resentment). 
As yet thou knbw'st not all, my son. I have 
Yet somewhat to disclose to thee. [After a pause. 

Duke Friedland 
Hath made his preparations. He relies 
Upon his stars. He deems us unprovided, 
And thinks to fall upon us by surprise. 
Yea, in his dream of hope, he grasps already 
The golden circle in his hand. He errs. 
We too have been in action — he but grasps 
His evil fate, most evil, most mysterious ! 

MAX. 

nothing rash, my sire ! By all that's good 
Let me invoke thee — no precipitation ! 

OCTAVIO. 

With light tread stole he on his evil way. 
And light tread hath Vengeance stole on after him. 
Unseen she stands already, dark behind him — 
But one step more — he shudders in her grasp ! 
Thou hast seen Questenberg with me. As yet 
Thou know'st but his ostensible commission : 
He brought with him a private one, my son ! 
And that was for me only. 

MAX. 

May I know it ? 

OCTAVIO {seizes the patent). 

Max.! 
[A pause 

In this disclosure place I in thy hands 

The Empire's welfare and thy father's life. 
Dear to thy inmost heart is Wallenstein : 
A powerful tie of love, of veneration, 
Hath knit thee to him from thy earliest youth. 
Thou nourishest the wish. — O let me still 
Anticipate thy loitering confidence ! 
The hope thou nourishest to knit thyself 
Yet closer to him 

MAX. 

Father 

OCTAVIO. 

O my son ! 

1 trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I 
Equally sure of thy coUectedness ? 

Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance, 
To enter this man's presence, when that I 
Have trusted to thee his whole fate ? 

MAX. 

According 
As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime. 

[OcTAVio takes a paper out of his escritoire, and 
gives it to him. 

MAX. 

What ? how ? a full Imperial patent ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Read it. 
MAX. {just glances on if). 
Duke Friedland sentenced and condemn'd ! 



OCTAVIO. 

Even so. 
MAX. {throws down the paper). 
O this is too much ! O imhappy error ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Read on. Collect thyself. 

MAX. {after he has read further, with a look of affright 
and astonishment on his father. 

How! what! Thou! thou! 

OCTAVIO. 

But for the present moment, till the King 
Of Hungary may safely join the army, 
Is the command assign'd to me. 

MAX. 

And think'st thou, 
Dost thou believe, that thou wilt tear it from him ? 
O never hope it ! — Father ! father ! father ! 
An inauspicious office is enjoin'd thee. 
This paper here — this ! and wilt thou enforce it ? 
The mighty in the middle of his host. 
Surrounded by his thousands, him wouldst thou 
Disarm — degrade ! Thou art lost, both thou and all 
of us. 

OCTAVIO. 

What hazard I incur thereby, I know. 
In the great hand of God I stand. The Almighty 
Will cover with his shield the Imperial house. 
And shatter, in his wrath, the work of darkness. 
The Emperor hath true servants still ; and even 
Here in the camp, there are enough brave men 
Who for the good cause will fight gallantly. 
The faithful have been wam'd — the dangerous 
Are closely watch'd. I wait but the first step. 
And then immediately 

MAX. 

What! on suspicion? 
Immediately ? 

OCTAVIO. 

The Emperor is no tyrant. 
The deed alone he '11 punish, not the wish. 
The Duke hath yet his destiny in his power. 
Let him but leave the treason uncompleted, 
He will be silently displaced from office. 
And make way to his Emperor's royal son. 
An honorable exile to his castles 
Will be a benefaction to him rather 
Than punishment. But the first open step 

MAX. 

What callest thou such a step ? A wicked step 
Ne'er will he take ; but thou mightest easily. 
Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay, howsoever punishable were 

Duke Friedland's purposes, yet still the steps 

Which he hath taken openly, permit 

A mild construction. It is my intention 

To leave this paper wholly unenforced 

Till some act is committed which convicts him 

Of a high-treason, without doubt or plea. 

And that shall sentence him. 



But who the judge ? 



OCTAVIO. 



Thyself. 



MAX. 

For ever, then, this paper will lie idle 
161 



152 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OCTAVIO. 

Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved. 
After the counter-promise of this evening, 
It cannot be but he must deem himself 
Secure of the majority with us ; 
And of the army's general sentiment 
He hath a pleasing proof in that petition 
Which thou delivered'st to him from the regiments. 
Add this too — I have letters that the Rhinegrave 
Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches 
To the Bohemian Forests. What this purports, 
Remains unknown ; and, to confirm suspicion. 
This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here. 

MAX. 

I have thy word. Thou 'It not proceed to action 
Before thou hast convinced me — me myself. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is it possible ? Still, after all thou know'st, 
Canst thou believe still in his innocence ? 

MAX. (ivith enthusiasm). 
Thy judgment may mistake ; my heart can not. 

[Moderates his voice and manner. 
These reasons might expound thy spirit or mine ; 
But they expound not Friedland — I have faith : 
For as he knits his fortunes to the stars, 
Even so doth he resemble them in secret, 
Wonderful, still inexplicable courses ! 
Trust me, they do him wrong. All will be solved. 
These smokes at once will kindle into flame — 
The edges of this black and stormy cloud 
Will brighten suddenly, and we shall view 
The unapproachable glide out in splendor. 

OCTAVIO. 

I will await it. 



SCENE II. 

OcTAVio and Max. as before. To them the Valet of 
THE Chamber. 

OCTAVIO. 

How now, then ? 

VALET. 

A dispatch is at the door. 

OCTAVIO. 

So early ? From whom comes he then ? Who is it ? 

VALET. 

That he refused to tell me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Lead him in : 
And, hark you — ^let it not transpire. 

[Exit Valet ; the Cornet steps in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Ha ! Comet— is it you ? and from Count Galas ? 
Give me your letters. 

CORNET. 

The Lieutenant-General 
Trusted it not to letters. 

OCTAVIO 

And what is it ? 

CORNET. 

He bade me tell you— Dare I speak openly here ? 

OCTAVIO. 

My son knows all. 

CORNET. 

We have him. 



Whom? 



The old negotiator. 

OCTAVIO (eagerly). 
And you have him ? 

CORNET. 

In the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrbrand 
Found and secured him yester-moming early : 
He was proceeding then to Regensburg, 
And on him were dispatches for the Swede. 

OCTAVIO. 

And the dispatches 

CORNET. 

The Lieutenant-General 
Sent them that instant to Vienna, and 
The prisoner with them. 

OCTAVIO. 

This is, indeed, a tiding ! 
That fellow is a precious casket to us. 
Inclosing weighty things. — Was much found on him? 

CORNET. 

I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's arms. 

OCTAVIO. 

None in the Duke's OAvn hand ? 

CORNET. 

Not that I know. 

OCTAVIO. 

And old Sesina ? 

CORNET. 

He was sorely frighten'd, 
When it was told him he must to Vienna. 
But the Count Altringer bade him take heart. 
Would he but make a full and free confession. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is Altringer then with your Lord ? I heard 
That he lay sick at linz. 

CORNET. 

These three days past 
He 's with my master, the Lieutenant-General, 
At Frauenberg. Already have they sixty 
Small companies together, chosen men ; 
Respectfully they greet you with assurances, 
That they are only waiting your commands. 

OCTAVIO. 

In a few days may great events take place. 
And when must you return ? 

CORNET. 

I wait your orders. 

OCTAVIO. 

Remain till evening. 

[Cornet signifies his assent and obeisance, and is 
going. 

No one saw you — ha ? 

CORNET. 

No living creature. Through the cloister wicket 
The Capuchins, as usual, let me in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself conceal'd. 
I hold it probable, that yet ere evening 
I shall dispatch you. The development 
Of this affair approaches : ere the day, 
That even now is dawning in the heaven, 

162 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



153 



Ere this eventful day hath set, the lot 

That must decide our fortunes will be drawn. 

[Exit Cornet. 



SCENE III. 
OcTAVio and Max. Piccolomini. 

OCTAVIO. 

Well — and what now, son? All will soon be clear; 
For all, I 'm certain, went through that Sesina. 

MAX. {who through the whole of the foregoing scene 
has been in a violent and visible struggle of feelings, 
at length starts as one resolved). 

I will procure me light a shorter way. 

Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 

Where now ? — Remain here. 

MAX. 

To the Duke. 

OCTAVIO (alarmed). 
What 

MAX. (returning). 
If thou hast believed that I shall act 

A part in this thy play 

Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously. 

My way must be straight on. True with the tongue, 

False with the heart — I may not, can not be : 

Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me — 

As his friend trust me — and then lull my conscience 

With such low pleas as these : — " I ask'd him not — 

He did it all at his own hazard — and 

My mouth has never lied to him." — No, no ! 

WTiat a friend takes me for, that T must be. 

- — I'll to the Duke ; ere yet this day is ended, 

Will I demand of him that he do save 

His good name from the world, and with one stride 

Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours. 

He can, he will ! — I still am his believer. 

Yet I '11 not pledge myself, but that those letters 

May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him. 

How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded — 

What may not he himself too have permitted 

Himself to do, to snare the enemy. 

The laws of war excusing ? Nothing, save 

His ovm mouth, shall convict him — ^nothing less ! 

And face to face will I go question him. 



OCTAVIO. 



Thou wilt ? 



MAX. 

I wjll, as sure as this heart beats. 

OCTAVIO. 

I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee. 

I calculated on a prudent son. 

Who would have blest the hand beneficent 

That pluck'd him back from the abyss — and lo ! 

A fascinated being I discover, 

Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders, 

Whom not the broadest hght of noon can heal. 

Go, question him! — Be mad enough, I pray thee. 

The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor, 

Go, give it up free booty : — Force me, drive me 

To an open breach before the time. And now, 

Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded 

My secret purpose even to this hour. 

And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes. 

Let me have lived to see that mine own son, 



With frantic enterprise, annihilates 
My toilsome labors and state-policy. 

MAX. 

Ay — this state-policy! O how I curse it! 

You will, some time, with your state-policy 

Compel him to the measure : it may happen. 

Because you are determined that he is guilty, 

Guilty ye '11 make him. All retreat cut of^ 

You close up every outlet, hem him in 

Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him 

Yes, ye, — ye force him, in his desperation, 

To set fire to his prison. Father ! father ! 

That never can end well — it can not — will not ! 

And let it be decided as it may, 

I see with boding heart the near approach 

Of an ill-starr'd, unblest catastrophe. 

For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall. 

Will drag a world into the ruin with him. 

And as a ship (that midway on the ocean 

Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst 

Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew 

In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven ; 

So will he, falling, draw down in his fall 

All us, who 're fix'd and mortised to his fortune. 

Deem of it what thou wilt ; but pardon me. 

That I must bear me on in my own way. 

All must remain pure betwixt him and me ; 

And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be known 

Which I must lose — my father, or my friend. 

[During his exit the curtain drops. 



ACT IV. 
SCENE I. 

Scene, a Room fitted up for astrological labors, and 
provided with celestial Charts, with Globes, Tele- 
scopes, Quadrants, and other mathematical Instru- 
ments. — Seven Colossal Figures, representing the 
Planets, each with a transparent Star of a different 
Color on its head, stand in a semicircle in the Back- 
ground, so that Mars and Saturn are nearest the 
Eye. — The Remainder of the Scene, and its Dispo- 
sition, is given in the Fourth Scene of the Second 
Act. — There must be a Curtain over the Figures, 
which may be dropped, and conceal them on occasions. 

[In the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped; but 
in the Seventh Scene, it must be again drawn up 
wholly or in part."] 

Wallenstein at a black Table, on which a Speculum 
Astrologicum is described with Chalk. Sen I is taking 
Observations through a Window. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

All well — and now let it be ended, Seni. — Come, 
The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour. 
We must give o'er the operation. Come, 
We know enough. 

SENI. 

Your Highness must permit me 
Just to contemplate Venus. She 's now rising : 
like as a sun, so shines she in the east. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

She is at present in her perigee. 

And shoots dovra now her strongest influences. 

[Contemplating the figure on the table. 
163 



154 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Auspicious aspect ! fateful in conjunction, 
At length the mighty three corradiate ; 
And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter 
And Venus, take between them the malignant 
Slyly-malicious Mars, and thus compel 
Into my service that old mischief-founder : 
For long he view'd me hostilely, and ever 
With beam oblique, or perpendicular, 
Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan, 
Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing 
Their blessed influences and sweet aspects. 
Now they have conquer'd the old enemy, 
And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me. 

SENi {who has come down from the window). 
And in a corner house, your Highness — think of that! 
That makes each influence of double strength. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect, 
The soft light with the vehement — so I love it. 
Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven, 
Bold be the plan, fiery the execution. 

SENI. 

And both the mighty Lumina by no 
Maleficus affronted. Lo ! Saturnus, 
Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Dome. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The empire of Saturnus is gone by ; 

Lord of the secret birth of things is he ; 

Within the lap of earth, and in the depths 

Of the imagination dominates ; 

And his are all things that eschew the light. 

The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance. 

For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now, 

And the dark work, complete of preparation. 

He draws by force into the realm of light. 

Now must we hasten on to action, ere 

The scheme, and most auspicious posture 

Parts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight ; 

For the heavens journey still, and sojourn not. 

[There are knocks at the door. 
There 's some one knocking there. See who it is. 

TERTSKY {from without). 
Open, and let me in. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay — 'tis Tertsky. 
What is there of such urgence ? We are busy. 

TERTSKY {from without). 
Lay all aside at present, I entreat you. 
It suffers no delaying. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Open, Seni ! 
[While Seni opens the door for Tertsky, Wallen- 
STEIN draws the curtain aver the figures. 
tertsky {enters). 
Hast thou already heard it ? He is taken. 
Galas has given him up to the Emperor. 

[Seni draws off the black table, and exit. 



SCENE II. 

WALLENSTEIN, CoUNT TeRTSKY. 
WALLENSTEIN {tO TeRTSKY). 

Who has been taken ? — Who is given up ? 

TERTSKY. 

The man who knows our secrets, who knows every 



Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon, 

Through whose hands all and everything has pass'd — 

WALLENSTEIN {drawing hack). 
Nay, not Sesina ? — Say, No ! I entreat thee. 

TERTSKY. 

All on his road for Regensburg to the Swede 
He was plunged down upon by Galas' agent. 
Who had been long in ambush lurking for him. 
There must have been found on him my whole packet 
To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstiem, to Arnheim : 
All this is in their hands ; they have now an insight 
Into the whole — our measures, and our motives. 



SCENE III. 
To them enters Illo. 



Has he heard it ? 



ILLO {to Tertsky). 

TERTSKY. 

He has heard it. 



ILLO {to WALLENSTEIN). 

Thinkest thou still 
To make thy peace with the Emperor, to regain 
His confidence ? — E'en were it now thy wish 
To abandon all thy plans, yet still they know 
What thou hast wish'd ,• then forwards thou must 



Retreat is now no longer in thy power. 

TERTSKY. 

They have documents against us, and in hands, 
Which show beyond all power of contradiction — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of my handwriting — no iota. Thee 
I punish for thy lies. 

ILLO. 

And thou believest. 
That what this man, that what thy sister's husband, 
Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reck'ning ? 
His word must pass for thy word with the Swede, 
And not with those that hate thee at Vienna. 

TERTSKY. 

In writing thou gavest nothing — But bethink thee. 
How far thou ventured 'st by word of mouth 
With this Sesina ! And will he be silent ? 
If he can save himself by jdelding up 
Thy secret purposes, will he retain them ? 

ILLO. 

Thyself dost not conceive it possible ; 
And since they now have evidence authentic 
How far thou hast already gone, speak ! — tell us, 
What art thou waiting for ? thou canst no longer 
Keep thy command ; and beyond hope of rescue 
Thou 'rt lost, if thou resign'st it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In the army 
Lies my security. The army will not 
Abandon me. Whatever they may know, 
The power is mine, and they must gulp it down — 
And substitute I caution for my fealty. 
They must be satisfied, at least appear so. 

ILLO. 

The army, Duke, is thine now — for this moment — 
'Tis thine : but think with terror on the slow. 
The quiet power of time. From open violence 
The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee 
To-day — to-morrow; butgrant'st thou them a respite, 

lfi4 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



155 



Unheard, unseen, they '11 undermine that love 
On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing, 
With wily theft will draw away from thee 
One after the other ■ 

WALLiENSTEIN. 

'Tis a cursed accident! 

ILLO. 

Oh ! I will call it a most blessed one, 
If it work on thee as it ought to do, 
Hurry thee on to action — to decision — 
The Swedish Genera l 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He 's arrived ! Know'st thou 
What his commission 



ILLO. 

To thee alone 
Will he intrust the purpose of his coming. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A cursed, cursed accident ! Yes, yes, 
Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent. 

TERTSKY. 

He 's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel. 

His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself 

At thy cost, think you he will scruple it ? 

And if they put him to the torture, will he. 

Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough 

WALLENSTEIN (losl in thought). 

Their confidence is lost — irreparably ! 
And I may act what way I will, I shall 
Be and remain for ever in their thought 
A traitor to my country. How sincerely 
Soever I return back to my duty, 
It will no longer help me 

ILLO. 

Ruin thee. 
That it will do ! Not thy fidelity, 
Thy weakness will be deem'd the sole occasion — 

WALLENSTEIN {pacing up and down in extreme 
agitation). 
What ! I must realize it now in earnest. 
Because I toy'd too freely with the thought ? 
Accursed he who dallies with a devil ! 
And must I — ^I must realize it now — 
Now, while I have the power, it must take place ! 

ILLO. 

Now — now — ere they can ward and parry it ! 

WALLENSTEIN (looJcing at the paper of signatures). 
I have the General's word — a written promise ! 
Max. Piccolomini stands not here — how's that? 

TERTSKY 

It was ^he fancied 

ILLO. 

Mere self-willedness. 
There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He is quite right — there needeth no such thing. 
The regiments, too, deny to march for Flanders — 
Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance, 
And openly resist the Imperial orders. 
The first step to revolt 's already taken. 

ILLO. 

Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy 
To lead them over to the enemy 
Than to the Spaniard. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

I will hear, however, 
What the Swede has to say to me. 

ILLO {eagerly to Tertsky). 

Go, call him ! 
He stands without the door in waiting. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Stay ! 
Stay yet a little. It hath taken me 
All by surprise, — it came too quick upon me ; 
'Tis wholly novel, that an accident, 
With its dark lordship, and blind agency. 
Should force me on with it. 

ILLO. 

First hear him only. 
And after weigh it. [Exeunt Tertsky and Illo 



SCENE IV. 



WALLENSTEIN {in soUloquy). 
Is it possible ? 
Is't so ? I can no longer what I would ? 
No longer draw back at my liking ? I 
Must do the deed, because I thought of it. 
And fed this heart here with a dream ? Because 
I did not scowl temptation from my presence. 
Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment. 
Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain, 
And only kept the road, the access open ? 
By the great God of Heaven ! It was not 
My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve. 
I but amused myself with thinking of it. 
The free-will tempted me, the power to do 
Or not to do it. — Was it criminal 
To make the fancy minister to hope. 
To fill the air with pretty toys of air. 
And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me ! 
Was not the world kept free ? Beheld I not 
The road of duty close beside me — but 
One little step, and once more I was in it ! 
Where am I ? Whither have I been transported ? 
No road, no track behind me, but a wall, 
Impenetrable, insurmountable, 
Rises obedient to the spells I mutter'd 
And meant not — my own doings tower behind me. 

[Pauses and remains in deep thought. 
A punishable man I seem ; the guilt, 
Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me ; 
The equivocal demeanor of my life 
Bears witness ori my prosecutor's party. 
And even my purest acts from purest motives 
Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss. 
Were I that thing for which I pass, that traitor, 
A goodly outside I had sure reserved. 
Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me 
Been calm and chary of my utterance ; 
But being conscious of the innocence 
Of my intent, my uncorrupted will, 
I gave way to my humors, to my passion : 
Bold were my words, because my deeds were not 
Now every planless measure, chance event. 
The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph, 
And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing, 
Will they connect, and weave them all together 
Into one web of treason ; all will be plan. 
My eye ne'er absent from the far-oflf mark, 
165 



156 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Step tracing step, each step a politic progress ; 
And out of all they '11 fabricate a charge 
So specious, that I must myself stand dumb. 
I am caught in my own net, and only force, 
Kaught but a sudden rent can liberate me. 

[Pauses again. 
How else ! since that the heart 's unbiass'd instinct 
Impell'd me to the daring deed, which now 
Necessity, self-preservation, orders. 
Stern is the On-look of Necessity, 
Not without shudder may a human hand 
Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny. 
My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom : 
Once sufFer'd to escape from its safe corner 
Within the heart, its nursery and birth-place. 
Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs 
For ever to those sly malicious powers 
Whom never art of man conciliated. 

[Paces in agitation through the chamber, then pauses, 

and, after the pause, breaks out again into 

audible soliloquy. 
What is thy enterprise ? thy aim ? thy object ? 
Hast honestly confess'd it to thyself? 
Power seated on a quiet throne thou 'dst shake. 
Power on an ancient consecrated throne. 
Strong in possession, founded in old custom ; 
Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots 
Fix'd to the people's pious nursery-faith. 
This, this will be no strife of strength with strength. 
That fear'd I not. I brave each combatant, 
Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye, 
Who, full himself of courage, kindles courage 
In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible. 
The which I fear — a fearful enemy, 
Which in the human heart opposes me, 
By its coward fear alone made fearful to me. 
Not that, which full of life, instinct with power. 
Makes known its present being ; that is not 
The true, the perilously formidable. 
O no ! it is the common, the quite common, 
The thing of an eternal yesterday. 
What ever was, and evermore returns, 
Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 't was sterling ! 
For of the wholly common is man made. 
And custom is his nurse ! Woe then to them. 
Who lay irreverent hands upon his old 
House furniture, the dear inheritance 
From his forefathers ! For time consecrates ; 
And what is gray with age becomes religion. 
Be in possession, and thou hast the right, 
And sacred wdll the many guard it for thee ! 

[7'o the Page, who here enters. 
The Swedish officer ? — Well, let him enter. 

[The Page exit, WALLENSTEiN^a;es his eye in deq) 

thought on the door. 
Yet is it pure — as yet ! the crime has come 
Not o'er this threshold yet — so slender is 
The boundary that divideth life's two paths. 



SCENE V. 

Wallenstein and Wrangel. 

WALLENSTKiN (after having fixed a searching look on 

him). 
Your name is Wrangel ? 



WRANGEL. 

Gustave Wrangel, General 
Of the Sudermanian Blues. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It was a Wrangel 
Who injured me materially at Stralsund, 
And by his brave resistance was the cause 
Of the opposition which that sea-port made. 

WRANGEL. 

It was the doing of the element 
With which you fought, my Lord ! and not my merit 
The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom : 
The sea and land, it seem'd, were not to serve 
One and the same. 

WALLENSTEIN (jnokes the motion for him to take a seat, 
and seats himself). 
^ And where are your credentials 1 
Come you provided with full powers. Sir General ? 

WRANGEL. 

There are so many scruples yet to solve 

WALLENSTEIN (having read the credentials). 
An able letter ! — Ay — he is a prudent 
Intelligent master, whom you serve. Sir General ! 
The Chancellor writes me, that he but fulfils 
His late departed Sovereign's own idea 
In helping me to the Bohemian crown. 

WRANGEL. 

He says the truth. Our great King, now in heaven, 

Did ever deem most highly of your Grace's 

Pre-eminent sense and military genius ; 

And always the commanding Intellect, 

He said, should have command, and be the King. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes, he might say it safely. — General Wrangel, 

[Taking his hand affectionately 
Come, fair and open. — Trust me, I was always 
A Swede at heart. Ey ! that did you experience 
Both in Silesia and at Nuremburg ; 
I had you often in my power, and let you 
Always slip out by some back-door or other. 
'Tis this for which the Court can ne'er forgive me. 
Which drives me to this present step : and since 
Our interests so run in one direction, 
E'en let us have a thorough confidence 
Each in the other. 

WRANGEL. 

Confidence vdll come 
Has each but only first security. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me ; 
And, I confess — the game does not he wholly 
To my advantage — Without doubt he thinks. 
If I can play false with the Emperor, 
Who is my Sov'reign, I can do the like 
With the enemy, and that the one too were 
Sooner to be forgiven me than the other. 
Is not this your opinion too, Sir General ? 

WRANGEL. 

I have here an office merely, no opinion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The Emperor hath urged me to the uttermost • 
I can no longer honorably serve him. 
For my security, in self-defence, 
I take this hard step, which my conscience blame«. 
166 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



157 



WRANGEL. 

That I believe. So far would no one go 
Who was not forced to it. [Afi^''' ^ pause. 

What may have impell'd 
Your princely Highness in this wise to act 
Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor, 
Beseems not us to expound or criticise. 
The Swede is fighting for his good old cause, 
With his good sword and conscience. This concur- 
rence, 
This opportunity, is in our favor. 
And all advantages in war are lawful. 
We take what offers withput questioning ; 
And if all have its due and just proportions^—— 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of what then are ye doubting ? Of my will ? 

Or of my power ? I pledged me to the Chancellor, 

Would he trust me with, sixteen thousand men, 

That I would instantly go over to them 

With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops. 

WRANGEL. 

Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief, 
To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus. 
'Tis talk'd of still with fresh astonishment. 
How some years past, beyond all human faith, 
You call'd an army forth, like a creation : 
But yet 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But yet ? 

WRANGEL. 

But still the Chancellor thinks, 
It might yet be an easier thing from nothing 
To call forth sixty thousand men of battle. 
Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them— - 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What now ? Out with it, friend ? 

WRANGEL. 

To break their oaths. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And he thinks so ? — He judges like a Swede, 
And like a Protestant. You Lutherans 
Fight for your Bible. You are interested 
About the cause ,• and with your hearts you follow 
Your banners. — Among you, whoe'er deserts 
To the enemy, hath broken covenant 
With two Lords at one time. — We 've no such fan- 
cies. 

j WRANGEL. 

Great God in Heaven ! Have then the people here 
I No house and home, no fire-side, no altar ? 

j WALLENSTEIN. 

I I will explain that to you, how it stands : — 
'i The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it. 
And has good cause to love it — but this army. 
That calls itself the Imperial, this that houses 
Here in Bohemia, this has none — no country ; 
This is an outcast of all foreign lands, 
Unclaim'd by town or tribe, to whom belongs 
Nothing, except the universal sun. 

WRANGEL. 

But then the Nobles and the Officers ? 
Such a desertion, such a felony. 
It is without example, my Lord Duke, 
In the world's history. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

They are all mine — 
Mine unconditionally — mine on all terras. 



Not me, your own eyes you must trust. 

[He gives him the paper containing the written 
oath. Wrangel reads it through, and, having 
read it, lays it on the table, remaining silent. 
So then ? 
Now comprehend you ? 

WRANGEL. 

Comprehend who can ! 
My Lord Duke ; I will let the mask drop — ^yes I 
I 've full powers for a fhial settlement. 
The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from 

here 
With fifteen thousand men, and only waits 
For orders to proceed and join your army. 
Those orders / give out, immediately 
We're compromised. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What asks the Chancellor ? 
WRANGEL {considerately). 
Twelve regiments, every man a Swede — my head 
The warranty — and all might prove at last 

Only false play 

WALLENSTEIN (Starting). 

Sir Swede ! 

WRANGEL (calmly proceeding). 

Am therefore forced 
T' insist thereon, that he do formally. 
Irrevocably break with the Emperor, 
Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come, brief, and open ! What is the demand ? 

WRANGEL. 

That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments 
Attach'd to the Emperor, that he seize Prague, 
And to the Swedes give up that city, with 
The strong pass Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That is much indeed ! 

Prague! — Egra's granted — But — but Prague!— 

'T won't do. 
I give you every security 

Which you may ask of me in common reason — 
But Prague — Bohemia — these. Sir General, 
I can myself protect. 

WRANGEL. 

We doubt it not. 
But 'tis not the protection that is now 
Our sole concern. We want security. 
That we shall not expend our men and money 
All to no purpose. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis but reasonable. 

WRANGEL. 

And till we are indemnified, so long 
Stays Prague in pledge. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Then trust you us so little ? 
WRANGEL (rising). 
The Swede, if he would treat well with the German, 
Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been call'd 
Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire 
From ruin — with our best blood have we seal'd 
The liberty of faith, and gospel truth. 
But now already is the benefaction 

No longer felt, the load alone is felt, 

Ye look askance with evil eye upon us, 
As foreigners, intruders in the empire, 
167 



158 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And would fain send us, with some paltry sum 
Of money, home again to our old forests. 
No, no ! my Lord Duke ! no ! — it never was 
For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver, 
That we did leave our King by the Great Stone.* 
No, not for gold and silver have there bled 
So many of our Swedish Nobles — neither 
Will we, with empty laurels for our payment, 
Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens 
Will we remain upon the soil, the which 
Our Monarch conquer'd for himself, and died. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Help to keep down the common enemy, 
And the fair border-land must needs be yours. 

WRANGEL. 

But when the common enemy lies vanquish'd, 

Who knits together our new friendship then ? 

We know, Duke Friedland ! though perhaps the Swede 

Ought not f have known it, that you carry on 

Secret negotiations with the Saxons. 

Who is our warranty, that we are not 

The sacrifices in those articles 

Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us? 

WALLENSTEIN {risCS). 

Think you of something better, Gustave Wrangel ! 
Of Prague no more. 

WRANGEL. 

Here my commission ends. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Surrender up to you my capital ! 

Far liever would I face about, and step 

Back to my Emperor. 

WRANGEL. 

If time yet permits 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That lies with me, even now, at any hour. 

WRANGEL. 

Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer ; 
No longer since Sesina 's been a prisoner. 

[WALLENSTEIN is strucJi, and silenced. 
My Lord Duke, hear me — We believe that you 
At present do mean honorably by us. 
Since yesterday we 're sure of that — and now 
This paper warrants for the troops, there 's nothing 
Stands in the way of our full confidence. 
Prague shall not part us. Hear ! The Chancellor 
Contents himself with Albstadt ; to your Grace 
He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side. 
But Egra above all must open to us, 
Ere we can think of any junction. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye press me hard. A measure, such as this. 
Ought to be thought of 

WRANGEL. 

Ay ! but think of this too. 
That sudden action only can procure it 
Success — think first of this, your Highness. 

[Exit Wrangel. 



WALLENSTEIN. 



You, 



You therefore must I trust, and you not me ? 
I will consider of your proposition. 

WRANGEL. 

I must entreat, that your consideration 
Occupy not too long a time. Already 
Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke ! 
Crept on into the second year. If nothing 
Is settled this time, will the Chancellor 
Consider it as broken off for ever. 



SCENE VI. 



WALLENSTEIN, Tertsky, and Illo {fe-enter). 

ILLO. 

Is't all right? 

tertsky. 
Are you compromised ? 

ILLO. 

This Swede 
Went smiling from you. Yes ! you're compromised. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

As yet is nothing settled : and (well weigh'd) 
L feel myself inclined to leave it so. 

TERTSKY. 

How ? What was that ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come on me what may com% 
The doing evil to avoid an evil 
Can not be good ! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay, but bethink you, Duke. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To live upon the mercy of these Swedes ! 

Of these proud-hearted Swedes ! — I could not bear it 

ILLO. 

Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant ? 

Bringest thou not more to them than thou reeeivest 1 



SCENE VIL 



* A great stone near LUtzen, since called the Swede's Stone, 
the body of their great king having been found at the foot of it, 
after the battle in which he lost his life. 



To these enter the Countess Tertsky. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who sent for you ? There is no business here 
For women. 

COUNTESS. 

I am come to bid you joy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Use thy authority, Tertsky ; bid her go. 

COUNTESS. 

Come I perhaps too early ? I hope not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you : 
You know it is the weapon that destroys me. 
I am routed, if a woman but attack me : 
I cannot traffic in the trade of words 
With that unreasoning sex. 

COUNTESS. 

I had already 
Given the Bohemians a king. 

WALLENSTEIN {sarcastically). 

They have one, 
In consequence, no doubt. 

COUNTESS {to the others). 

Ha ! what new scruple ? 

' TERTSKY. 

The Duke will not. 

168 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



159 



COUNTESS. 

He uoill not what he must ! 



It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced, 
When folks begin to talk to me of conscience, 
And of fidelity. 

COUNTESS. 

How ? then, when all 
Lay in the far-off distance, when the road 
Stretch'd out before thine eyes interminably. 
Then hadst thou courage and resolve ; and now, 
Now that the dream is being realized, 
The purpose ripe, the issue ascertain'd. 
Dost thou begin to play the dastard now ? 
Plann'd merely, 'tis a common felony ; 
Accomplish'd, an immortal undertaking : 
And with success comes pardon hand in hand ; 
For all event is God's arbitrement. 

SERVANT (enters). 
The Colonel Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS (hastily). 

— Must wait 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I cannot see him now. Another time. 

SERVANT. 

But for two minutes he entreats an audience : 
Of the most urgent nature is his business. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who knows what he may bring us ! I will hear him. 

COUNTESS (laughs). 
Urgent for him, no doubt ; out thou mayest wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What is it ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou shalt be inform'd hereafter. 
First let the Swede and thee be compromised. 

[Exit Servant. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If there were yet a choice ! if yet some milder 
Way of escape were possible — I still 
Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme. 

COUNTESS. 

Desirest thou nothing further ? Such a way 

Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off 

Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away 

All thy past life ; determine to commence 

A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too, 

As well as Fame and Fortune. — To Vienna — 

Hence — to the Emperor — kneel before the throne ; 

Take a full coffer with thee — say aloud. 

Thou didst but wish to prove thy fealty ; 

Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede. 

ILLO. 

For that too 'tis too late. They know too much : 
He would but bear his own head to the block. 

COUNTESS. 

I fear not that. They have not evidence 
To attaint him legally, and they avoid 
The avowal of an arbitrary power. 
They '11 let the Duke resigri'without disturbance. 
I see how all will end. The King of Hungary 
Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself 
Be understood, that then the Duke retires. 
There will not want a formal declaration : 
The young king will administer the oath 
To the whole army ; and so all returns 
W 



To the old position. On some morrow morning 

The Duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle 

Within his castles. He will hunt, and build ; 

Superintend his horses' pedigrees. 

Creates himself a court, gives golden keys. 

And introduceth strictest ceremony 

In fine proportions, and nice etiquette ; 

Keeps open table with high cheer ; in brief, 

Commenceth mighty King — in miniature. 

And while he prudently demeans himself. 

And gives himself no actual importance. 

He will be let appear whate'er he likes : 

And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear 

A mighty Prince to his last dying hour ? 

Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others 

A fire-new Noble, whom the war hath raised 

To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd. 

An over-night creation of court-favor. 

Which with an undistinguishable ease 

Makes Baron or makes Prince. 

WALLENSTEIN (in extreme agitation). 

Take her away. 
Let in the young Count Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS. 

Art thou in earnest ? I entreat thee ! Canst thou 
Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave 
So ignominiously to be dried up ? 
Thy life, that arrogated such a height. 
To end in such a nothing ! To be nothing. 
When one was always nothing, is an evil 
That asks no stretch of patience, a hght evil ; 
But to become a nothing, having been 

WALLENSTEIN (starts Up in violent agitation). 
Show me a way out of this stifling crowd. 
Ye Powers of Aidance ! Show me such a way 
As I am capable of going. — I 
Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler ; 
I cannot warm by thinking ; cannot say 
To the good luck that turns her back upon me, 
Magnanimously : " Go ; I need thee not." 
Cease I to work, I am annihilated. 
Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun. 
If so I may avoid the last exti;eme ; 
But ere I sink down into nothingness. 
Leave off so little, who began so great, 
Ere that the world confuses me with those 
Poor wretches, whom a day creates and crumbles. 
This age and after ages* speak my name 
With hate and dread ; and Friedland be redemption 
For each accursed deed ! 

COUNTESS. 

What is there here, then, 
So against nature ? Help me to perceive it ! 
O let not Superstition's nightly goblins 
Subdue thy clear bright spirit ! Art thou bid 
To murder ? — with abhorr'd accursed poniard. 
To violate the breasts that nourish'd thee ? 
That were against our nature, that might aptly 
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken.t 



* Could 1 have hazarded such a Germanism, as the use of 
the word after-world, for posterity, — " Es spreche Welt und 
J^achwelt meinen Namen" — might have been rendered with 
more literal fidelity : — Let world and after-world speak out my 
name, etc. 

1 1 have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy of our 
age with the literal translation of this line, 

werth 
Die Eingeweide schaudernd aufzuregen. 
169 



160 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet not a few, and for a meaner object, 
Have ventured even this, ay, and perform'd it. 
What is there in thy case so black and monstrous ? 
Thou art accused of treason — whether with 
Or without justice is not now the question — 
Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly 
Of the power which thou possessest— Friedland I Duke I 
Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame, 
That doth not all his living faculties 
Put forth in preservation of his life ! 
What deed so daring, which necessity 
And desperation will not sanctify ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me : 

He loved me ; he esteem'd me ; I was placed 

The nearest to his heart. Full many a time 

We, like familiar friends, both at one table. 

Have banqueted together. He and I — 

And the young kings themselves held me the basin 

Wherewith to wash me — and is't come to this? 

COUNTESS. 

So faithfully preservest thou each small favor, 

And hast no memory for contumelies ? 

Must I remind thee, how at Regensbur^ 

This man repaid thy faithful services ? 

All ranks and all conditions in the empire 

Thou hadst wrong'd, to make him great, — ^hadst 

loaded on thee. 
On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world. 
No friend existed for thee in all Germany, 
And why ! because thou hadst existed only 
For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone 
Clung Friedland in that storm which gather'd round 

him 
At Regensburg in the Diet— and he dropp'd thee ! 
He let thee fall ! He let thee fall a victim 
To the Bavarian, to that insolent ! 
Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity 
And power, amid the taunting of thy foes, 
Thou wert let drop into obscurity. — 
Say not, the restoration of thy honor 
Has made atonement for that first injustice. 
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee ; 
The law of hard necessity replaced thee, 
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not to their good wishes, that is certain. 
Nor yet to his affection, I 'm indebted 
For this high office ; and if I abuse it, 
I shall therein abuse no confidence. 

COUNTESS. 

Affection ! confidence ! — They needed thee. 

Necessity, impetuous remonstrant ! 

Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy. 

Is served, who '11 have the thing and not the symbol, 

Ever seeks out the greatest and the best, 

And at the rudder places him, e'en though 

She had been forced to take him from the rabble — 

She, this Necessity, it was that placed thee 

In this high office ; it was she that gave thee 

Thy letters-patent of inauguration. 

For, to the uttermost moment that they can. 

This race still help themselves at cheapest rate 

With slavish souls, with puppets ! At the approach 

Of extreme peril, when a hollow image 

Is found a hollow image and no more. 

Then falls the power into the mighty hands 



Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born, 
Who listens only to himself, knows nothing 
Of stipulations, duties, reverences, 
And, like the emancipated force of fire, 
Unmaster'd scorches, ere it reaches them, 
Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis true i they saw me always as I am — 
Always ! I did not cheat them in the bargain. 
I never held it worth my pains to hide 
The bold all-grasping habit of my soul. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay rather — thou hast ever showTi thyself 

A formidable man, without restraint ; 

Hast exercised the full prerogatives 

Of thy impetuous nature, which had been 

Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou. 

Who hast still remain'd consistent with thyself, 

But tJiey are in the wrong, who fearing thee. 

Intrusted such a power in hands they fear'd. 

For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right 

Is every individual character 

That acts in strict consistence with itself. 

Self-contradiction is the only wrong. 

Wert thou another being, then, when thou 

Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire 

And sword, and desolation, through the Circles 

Of Germany, the universal scourge, 

Didst mock all ordinances of the empire, 

The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst, 

Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy. 

All to extend thy Sultan's domination ? 

Then was the time to break thee in, to curb 

Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance. 

But no, the Emperor felt no touch of conscience* 

What served him pleased him, and without a murmur 

He stamp'd hij broad seal on these lawless deeds. 

What at that time was right, because thou didst it 

For him, to-day is all at once become 

Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed 

Against him. — O most flimsy superstition ! 

WALLENSTEIN (rising). 

I never saw it in this light before. 

'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated 

Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly. 

And even this prince's mantle, which I wear, 

I owe to what were services to him, 

But most high misdemeanors 'gainst the empire. 

COUNTESS. 

Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, Friedland t) 
The point can be no more of right and duty. 
Only of power and the opportunity. 
That opportunity, lo ! it comes yonder 
Approaching with swift steeds ; then with a swing 
Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat, 
Seize with firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent 
Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest 
Of the now empty seat. The moment comes ; 
It is already here, when thou must write 
The absolute total of thy life's vast sum. 
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee, 
The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions. 
And tell thee, " Now 's the time !" The starry course* 
Hast thou thy life-long measured to no purpose ? 
The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings ? 
[Pointing to the different objects in the room^ 
170 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



161 



The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven, 

Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee 

In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed 

These seven presiding Lords of Destiny — 

For toys ? Is all this preparation nothing ? 

Is there no marrow in this hollow art, 

That even to thyself it doth avail 

Nothing, and has no influence over thee 

In the great moment of decision ? 

WALLENSTEIN (during this last speech walks up and 

dawn with inward struggles, laboring with passion ; 

stops suddenly, stands still, then interrupting the 

Countess). 
Send Wrangel to me — I will instantly 
Dispatch three couriers 

ILLO (hurrying out). 

God in heaven be praised ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It is his evil genius and mine. 

Our evil genius .' It chastises him 

Through me, th« instrument of his ambition ; 

And I expect no less, than that Revenge 

E'en now is whetting for my breast the poniard. 

Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope 

To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime 

Has, in the moment of its perpetration. 

Its own avenging angel — dark misgiving. 

An ominous sinking at the inmost heart. 

He can no longer trust me — Then no longer 

Can I retreat — so come that which must come. — 

Still Destiny preserves its due relations : 

The heart within us is its absolute 

Vicegerent. 

[To Tertsky. 
Go, conduct you Gustavo Wrangel 
To my state-cabinet. — Myself will speak to 
The couriers. — And dispatch immediately 
A servant for Octavio Piccolomini. 

[To the Countess, who cannot conceal her triumph. 
No exultation ! woman, triumph not ! 
For jealous are the Powers of Destiny. 
Joy premature, and shouts ere victory. 
Encroach upon their rights and privileges. 
We sow the seed, and they the growth determine. 
[ While he is making his exit, the curtain drops. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 
Scene, as in the preceding Act. 

WALLENSTEIN, OCTAVIO PiCCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN {coming forward in conversation). 
He sends me word from Linz, that he lies sick ; 
But I have sure intelligence, that he 
Secretes himself at Frauenberg with Galas. 
Secure them both, and send them to me hither. 
Remember, thou takest on thee the command 
Of those same Spanish regiments, — constantly 
Make preparation, and be never ready ; 
And if they urge thee to draw out against me. 
Still answer yes, and stand as thou wert fetter'd. 
J know, tliat it is doing thee a service 
To keep thee out of action in this business. 
Thou lovest to linger on in fair appearances ; 



Steps of extremity are not thy province, 
Therefore have I sought out this part for thee. 
Thou wilt this time be of most service to me 
By thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune 
Declare itself on my side, thou wilt know 
What is to do. 

Enter Max. Piccolomini. 
Now go, Octavio. 
This night must thou be off: take my own horses 
Him here I keep with me — make short farewell- 
Trust me, I think we all shall meet again 
In joy a-nd thriving fortunes. 

ocTAVio (to his son). 

I shall see you 
Yet ere I go. 



SCENE II. 

WALLENSTEIN, MaX. PiCCOLOMINL 

MAX. {advances to him). 
My General ! 

M WALLENSTEIN. 

That am I no longer, if 
Thou stylest thyself the Emperor's officer 

MAX. 

Then thou wilt leave the army. General ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I have renounced the service of the Emperor. 

MAX. 

And thou wilt leave the army ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Rather hope I 
To bind it nearer still and faster to me. 

[He seats himself 
Yes, Max., I have delay'd to open it to thee, 
Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike. 
Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily 
The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is 
To exercise the single apprehension 
Where the sums square in proof; 
But where it happens, that of two sure evils 
One must be taken, where the heart not wholly 
Brings itself back from out the strife of duties. 
There 't is a blessing to have no election, 
And blank necessity is grace and favor. 
— This is now present : do not look behind thee, — 
It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards ! 
Think not ! judge not ! prepare thyself to act ! 
The Court — it hath determined on my ruin. 
Therefore I will to be beforehand with them. 
We '11 join the Swedes — right- gallant fellows are 

they, 
And our good friends. 

[He stops himself, expecting Piccolomini's answer. 
I have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not. 
I grant thee time to recollect thyself 

[He rises, and retires to the back of the stage. 
Max. remains for a long time motionless, 
in a trance of excessive anguish. At his 
first motion Wallenstein returns, and 
places himself before him. 

MAX. 

My General, this day thou makest me 
Of age to speak in my own right and person, 
For till this day I have been spared the trouble 
To find out my own road. Thee have I follow''d 
171 



162 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With most implicit unconditional faith, 
Sure of the right path if I follow'd thee. 
To-day, for the first time, dost thou refer 
Me to myself, and forcest me to make 
Election between thee and my own heart. 

WALLENSTEIN, 

Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till to-day ; 
Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport, 
Indulge all lovely instincts, aict for ever 
With undivided heart. It can remain 
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads 
Start from each other. Duties strive with duties. 
Thou must needs choose thy party in the war 
Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him 
Who is thy Emperor. 

MAX. 

War ! is that the name ? 
War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence. 
Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is. 
Is that a good war, which against the Emperor 
Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army ? 
O God of heaven ! what a change is this ! 
Beseems it me to offer such persuasion 
To thee, who like the fix'd star of the pole 
Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean ? 
O ! what a rent thou makest in my heart ! 
The ingrain'd instinct of old reverence, 
The holy habit of obediency, 
Must I pluck live asunder from thy name ? 
Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me — 
It always was as a god looking at me ! 
Duke Wallenstein, its power is not departed : 
The senses still are in thy bonds, although. 
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself. 



WALLENSTEIN. 



Max., hear me. 



MAX. 

O ! do it not, I pray thee, do it not ! 
There is a pure and noble soul within thee, 
Knows not of this unblest, imlucky doing. 
Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only 
Which hath polluted thee — and innocence, 
It will not let itself be driven away 
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not, 
Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce 
All human creatures to disloyalty 
Against the nobleness of their own nature. 
'T will justify the vulgar misbelief. 
Which holdeth nothing noble in free-will. 
And trusts itself to impotence alone. 
Made powerful only in an unknown power. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The world will judge me sternly, I expect it. 
Already have I said to my own self 
All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids 
The extreme, can he by going round avoid it ? 
But here there is no choice. Yes — I must use 
Or suffer violence — so stands the case. 
There remains nothing possible but that 

MAX. 

O that is never possible for thee ! 

'T is the last desperate resource of those 

Cheap souls, to whom their honor, their good name 

Is their poor saving, their last worthless keep, 

Which having staked and lost, they stake themselves 

In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich, 



And glorious ; with an unpolluted heart 

Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems 

highest ! 

But he, who once hath acted infamy. 
Does nothing more in this world. 

WALLENSTEIN {grasps Ms hand). 

Calmly, Max. ! 
Much that is great and excellent will we 
Perform together yet. And if we only 
Stand on the height with dignity, 't is soon 
Forgotten, Max., by what road we ascended. 
Beheve me, many a crown shines spotless now. 
That yet was deeply sullied in the winning. 
To the evil spirit doth the earth belong, 
Not to the good. All, that the powers divine 
Send from above, are universal blessings : 
Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes. 
But never yet was man enrich'd by them : 
In their eternal realm no property 
Is to be struggled for — all there is general. 
The jewel, the all-valued gold we win 
From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature, 
That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light. 
Not without sacrifices are they render'd 
Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth 
That e'er retired unsullied from their service. 

MAX. 

Whate'er is human, to the human being 

Do I allow — and to the vehement 

And striving spirit readily I pardon 

The excess of action ; but to thee, my General ! 

Above all others make I large concession. 

For thou must move a world, and be the master — 

He kills thee, who condemns thee to inaction 

So be it then ! maintain thee in thy post 

By violence. Resist the Emperor, 

And if it must be, force with force repel : 

I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it. 

But not — not to the traitor — yes ! — the word 

Is spoken out 

Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon. 
That is no mere excess ! that is no error 
Of human nature — that is wholly different, 
O that is black, black as the pit of hell ! 

[Wallenstein betrays a sudden agitation 
Thou canst not hear it named, and wilt thou do it ? 

turn back to thy duty. That thou canst, 

1 hold it certain. Send me to Vienna : 

I'll make thy peace for thee with the Emperor. 
He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He 
Shall see thee, Duke ! with my unclouded eye, 
And I bring back his confidence to thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It is too late. Thou knowest not what has happen'd 

MAX. 

Were it too late, and were things gone so far. 

That a crime only could prevent thy fall. 

Then — fall ! fall honorably, even as thou stood'st 

Lose the command. Go from the stage of war. 

Thou canst with splendor do it — do it too 

With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others, 

At length live thou for thy own self I follow thee. 

My destiny I never part from thine. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It is too late ! Even now, while thou art losing 
Thy words^ one after the other are the mile-stones 
Left fast behind by my post couriers, 

172 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



163 



Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra. 

[Max. stands as convulsed, with a gesture and 
countenance expressing the most intense an- 
guish. 
Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced. 
I cannot give assent to my own shame 
And ruin. Thou — no — thou canst not forsake me ! 
So let us do, what must be done, with dignity, 
With a firm step. What am I doing worse 
Than did famed Caesar at the Rubicon, 
When he the legions led against his country, 
The which his country had deliver'd to him ? 
Had he thrown down the sword, he had been lost, 
As I were, if I but disarm'd myself 
I trace out something in me of his spirit ; 
Give me his luck, that other thing I '11 bear, 

[Max. quits him abruptly. WALLENSTEiN,sfeir<Zei 
and overpowered, continues looking after him, 
and is stili in this posture when Tertsky 
enters. 



SCENE III. 
Wallenstein, Tertsky. 



TERTSKY. 

Max. Piccolomini just left you ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Where is Wrangel ? 

' TERTSKY. 

He is already gone. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In such a hurry ? 

TERTSKY. 

It is as if the earth had swallow'd him. 

He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him. 

I wish'd some words with him — but he was gone. 

How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay, 

I half believe it was the devil himself; 

A human croaiure could not so at once 

Have vanish'd 

ILLO {enters). 
Is it true that thou wilt send 
Octavio ? 

TERTSKY. 

How, Octavio ! Whither send him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither 
The Spanish and Italian regiments. 

ILLO. 

No! 
Nay, Heaven forbid ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And why should Heaven forbid ? 

ILLO. 

Him ! — that deceiver ! Wouldst thou trust to him 
The soldiery ? Him wilt thou let slip from thee. 
Now, in the very instant that decides us 

TERTSKY. 

Thou wilt not do this ! — No ! I pray thee, no ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye are whimsical. 

ILLO. 

O but for this time, Duke, 
Yield to our warning! Let him not depart. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And why should I not trust him only this time, 



Who have always trusted him? What, then, has 

happen'd. 
That I should lose my good opinion of him ? 
In complaisance to your whims, not my own, 
I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment. 
Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him 
E'en till to-day, to-day too will I trust him. 

TERTSKY. 

Must it be he — he only ? Send another. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It must be he, whom I myself have chosen ; 
He is well fitted for the business. Therefore 
I gave it him, 

ILLO. 

Because he 's an Italian — 
Therefore is he well fitted for the business ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I know you love them not — nor sire nor son — 

Because that I esteem them, love them — visibly 

Esteem them, love them more than you and others. 

E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights. 

Thorns in your foot-path. But your jealousies. 

In what affect they me or my concerns ? 

Are they the worse to me because you hate them? 

Love or hate one another as you will, 

I leave to each man his own moods and likings ; 

Yet know the worth of each of you to me. 

ILLO. 

Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always 
Lurking about with this Octavio. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It happen'd with my knowledge and permission. 

ILLO. 

I know that secret messengers came to him 
From Galas 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That's not true. 

ILLO. 

O thou art blind. 
With thy deep-seeing eyes ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou wilt not shake 
My faith for me — ^my faith, which founds itself 
On the profoundest science. If 'tis false. 
Then the whole science of the stars is false ; 
For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself, 
That he is the most faithful of my friends. 

ILLO. 

Hast thou a pledge, that this pledge is not false ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There exist moments in the life of man. 
When he is nearer the great Soul of the world 
Than is man's custom, and possesses freely 
The power of questioning his destiny : 
And such a moment 'twas, when in the night 
Before the action in the plains of Liitzen, 
Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts 
I look'd out far upon the ominous plain. 
My whole life, past and future, in this moment 
Before my mind's eye glided in procession. 
And to the destiny of the next morning 
The spirit, fiU'd with anxious presentiment, 
Did knit the most removed futurity. 
Then said I also to myself, " So many 
Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars 
And as on some great number set their AH 
Upon thy single head, and only man 
173 



164 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day 

Will come, when Destiny shall once more scatter 

All these in many a several direction : 

Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee." 

I yearn'd to know which one was faithfullest 

Of all, this camp included. Great Destiny, 

Give me a sign ! And he shall be the man. 

Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first 

To meet me with a token of his love : 

And thinking this, I fell into a slumber. 

Then midmost in the battle was I led 

In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult! 

Then was my horse kill'd under me : I sank ; 

And over me away all unconcernedly, 

Drove horse and rider — and thus trod to pieces 

I lay, and panted like a dying man ; 

Then seized me suddenly a savior arm : 

It was Octavio's — I awoke at once, 

'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me. 

" My brother," said he, " do not ride to-day 

The dapple, as you 're wont ; but mount the horse 

Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother ! 

In love to me. A strong dream wam'd me so." 

It was the swiftness of this horse that snatch'd me 

From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons. 

My cousin rode the dapple on that day, 

And never more saw I or horse or rider. 

ILLO. 

That was a chance. 

WALLENSTEIN {significantly). 

There 's no such thing as chance. 
In brief, 'tis sign'd and seal'd that this Octavio 
Is my good angel — and now no word more. 

\He is retiring. 

TERTSKY. 

This is my comfort — Max. remains our hostage. 

ILLO. 

And he shall never stir from here alive. 

WALLENSTEIN {stops and turns himself round). 
Are ye not like the women, who for ever 
Only recur to their first word, although 
One had been talking reason by the hour ! 
Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds 
Are not, like ocean billows, blindly moved. 
The inner world, his microcosmus, is 
The deep shaft, out of which they spring eternally. 
They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit — 
No juggling chance can metamorphose them. 
Have I the human kernel first examined ? 
Then I know, too, the future will and action. 



SCENE IV. 



Scene — A chamber in Piccolomini's Dwelling-House. 

^ Octavio Piccolomini, Isolani, entering. 
isolanl 
Here am I — Well ! who comes yet of the others ? 

octavio (with an air of mystery). 
But, first a word with you. Count Isolani. 

isolani {assuming the same air of mystery). 
Will it explode, ha ? — Is the Duke about 
To make the attempt ? In me, friend, you may place 
Full confidence. — Nay, put me to the proof 

OCTAVIO. 

That may happen. 



ISOLANL 

Noble brother, I am 
Not one of those men who in words are valiant, 
And when it comes to action skulk away. 
The Duke has acted towards me as a friend. 

God knows it is so ; and I owe him all 

He may rely on my fidelity. 

OCTAVIO. 

That will be seen hereafter. 

ISOLANI. 

Be on your guard. 
All think not as I think ; and there are many 
Who still hold with the Court — yes, and they say 
That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing 

OCTAVIO. 

I am rejoiced to hear it. 

ISOLANL 

You rejoice ! 

OCTAVIO. 

That the Emperor has yet such gallant servants, 
And loving friends. 

ISOLANI. 

Nay, jeer not, I entreat you. 
They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you. 

OCTAVIO. 

I am assured already. God forbid 

That I should jest ! — In very serious earnest, 

I am rejoiced to see an honest cause 

So strong. 

ISOLANL 

The Devil ! — what ! — why, what means this ? 
Are you not, then For what, then, am I here ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That you may make full declaration, whether 
You will be call'd the friend or enemy 
Of the Emperor. 

ISOLANI (with an air of defiance). 
That declaration, friend, 
I '11 make to him in whom a right is placed 
To put that question to me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whether, Count, 
That right is mine, this paper may instruct you. 

ISOLANI (stammering). 
Why^why — what ! this is the Emperor's hand and 

seal ! [Reads. 

" Whereas, the oflicers collectively 
Throughout our army will obey the orders 
Of the Lieutenant-general Piccolomini. 
As from ourselves" Hem! — Yes! so! — Yes! 

yes! — 
I — ^I give you joy. Lieutenant-general ! 

OCTAVIO. 

And you submit you to the order ? 

ISOLANL 

I- 

But you have taken me so by surprise — 
Time for reflection one must have 

OCTAVIO. 

Two minutes- 

ISOLANL 

My God ! But then the case is 

OCTAVIO. 

Plain and simple 
You must declare you, whether you determine 
To act a treason 'gainst your Lord and Sovereign, 
Or whether you will serve him faithfully. 
174 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



165 



ISOLANI. 

Treason ! — My God ! — But who tallts then of treason ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That is the case. The Prince-duke is a traitor — 

Means to lead over to the enemy 

The Emperor's army. — Now, Count! — brief and 

full- 
Say, will you break your oath to the Emperor ? 
Sell yourself to the enemy ? — Say, will you ? 

ISOLANI. 

What mean you ? I — I break my oath, d'ye say, 

To his Imperial Majesty ? 

Did I say so ? — ^When, when have I said that ? 

OCTAVIO. 

You have not said it yet — not yet. This instant 
I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it. 

ISOLANI. 

Ay ! that delights me now, that you yourself 
Bear witness for me that I never said so. 

OCTAVIO. 

And you renounce the Duke, then ? 

ISOLANI. 

If he 's planning 
Treason— why, treason breaks all bonds asunder. 

OCTAVIO. 

And are determined, too, to fight against him ? 

ISOLANL 

He has done me service — but if he 's a villain. 
Perdition seize him! — All scores are rubb'd off. 

OCTAVIO. 

I am rejoiced that you're so well-disposed. 
This night break off in the utmost secrecy 
With all the light-arm'd troops — it must appear 
As came the order from the Duke himself. 
At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous ; 
There will Coimt Galas give you further orders. 

ISOLANL 

It shall be done. But you'll remember me 

With the Emperor — how well-disposed you found me. 

OCTAVIO. 

I will not fail to mention it honorably. 

[Eodt IsoLANi. A Servant enters. 
What, Colonel Butler ! — Show him up. 

ISOLANI (returning). 
Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father ! 
Lord God ! how should I know, then, what a great 
Person I had before me ? 

OCTAVIO. 

No excuses ! 

ISOLANL 

I am a merry lad, and if at time 

A rash word might escape me 'gainst the court 

Amidst my wine— you luiow no harm was meant. 

[Exit. 

OCTAVIO. 

You need not be uneasy on that score. 
That has succeeded. Fortune favor us 
With all the others only but as much ! 



SCENE V. 

OCTAVIO, PiCCOLOMINI, BuTLER. 
BUTLER. 

At your command, Lieutenant-General. 

OCTAVIO. 

Welcome, as honor'd friend and visitor. 



BUTLER. 

You do me too much honor. 

OCTAVIO (after both have seated themselves). 
You have not 
Return'd the advances which I made you yesterday — 
Misunderstood them, as mere empty forms. 
That wish proceeded from my heart — I was 
In earnest with you — for 'tis now a time 
In which the honest should unite most closely. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis only the like-minded can unite. 

OCTAVIO, 

True ! and I name all honest men like-minded. 

I never charge a man but with those acts 

To which his character deliberately 

Impels him ; for alas ! the violence 

Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts 

The very best of us from the right track. 

You came through Frauenberg. Did the Count Galas 

Say nothing to you ? Tell me. He 's my friendr 

BUTLER. 

His words were lost on me. 

OCTAVIO. 

It grieves me sorely, 
To hear it : for his counsel was most wise. 
I had myself the like to offer. 

BUTLER. 

Spare 
Yourself the trouble — me th' embarrassment. 
To have deserved so ill your good opinion. 

OCTAVIO. 

The time is precious — let us talk openly. 
You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein 
Meditates treason — I can tell you further — 
He has committed treason ; but few hours 
Have past, since he a covenant concluded 
With the enemy. The messengers are now 
Full on their way to Egra and to Prague. 
To-morrow he intends to lead us over 
To the enemy. But he deceives himself; 
For Prudence wakes — the Emperor has still 
Many and faithful friends here, and they stand 
In closest union, mighty though unseen. 
This manifesto sentences the Duke — 
Recalls the obedience of the army from him. 
And summons all the loyal, all the honest, 
To join and recognize in me their leader. 
Choose — will you share with us an honest cause ? 
Or with the evil share an evil lot. 



His lot is mine. 



It is. 



BUTLER (rises). 

OCTAVIO. 

Is that your last resolve ? 



OCTAVIO. 

Nay, but bethink you. Colonel Butler ! 
As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast 
That rashly-utter'd word remains interr'd. 
Recall it, Butler ! choose a better party : 
You have not chosen the right one. 
, BUTLER (going). 

Any other 
Commands for me, Lieutenant-General ? 

OCTAVIO. 

See your white hairs ! Recall that word ! 
175 



ICG 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



BUTLER. 

Farewell ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What ? Would you draw this good and gallant sword 
In such a cause ? Into a curse would you 
Transform the gratitude which you have eam'd 
By forty years' fidelity from Austria ? 

BUTLER (laughing with bitterness). 
Gratitude from the House of Austria ! [He is going. 
OCTAVIO (permits him to go as far as the door, then 

calls after him). 
Butler!- ^ 

BUTLER. 

What wish you ? 

OCTAVIO. 

How was't with the Count? 

BUTLER. 

Count? what? 

OCTAVIO (coldly). 
The title that you wish'd, I mean. 
BUTLER (starts in sudden passion). 
Hell and damnation ! 

OCTAVIO (coldly). 

You petition'd for it — 
And your petition was repell'd — Was it so ? 

BUTLER. 

Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunish'd. 
Draw! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay! yoursword to 'ts sheath! and tell me calmly, 
How all that happen'd. I will not refuse you 
Your satisfaction afterwards. — Calmly, Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness 

For which I never can forgive myself 

Lieutenant-General ! Yes — I have ambition. 

Ne'er was I able to endure contempt. 

It stung me to the quick, that birth and title 

Should have more weight than merit has in the army. 

I would fain not be meaner than my equal. 

So in an evil hour I let myself 

Be tempted to that measure — It was folly ! 

But yet so hard a penance it deserved not. 

It might have been refused ; but wherefore barb 

And venom the refusal vidth contempt ? 

Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn 

The gray-hair'd man, the faithful veteran ? 

Why to the baseness of his parentage 

Refer him with such cruel roughness, only 

Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself? 

But Nature gives a sting e'en to the worm 

Which wanton Power treads on in sport and insult. 

OCTAVIO. 

You must have been calumniated. Guess you 
The enemy, who did you this ill service ? 

BUTLER. 

Be 't who it will — a most low-hearted scoundrel. 
Some vile court-minion must it be, some Spaniard, 
Some young squire of some ancient family. 
In whose light I may stand, some envious knave, 
Stung to the soul by my fair self-eam'd honors ! 

OCTAVIO. « 

But tell me ! Did the Duke approve that measure ? 

BUTLER. 

Himself impell'd me to it, used his interest 

In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship. 



OCTAVIO. 

Ay ? are you sure of that ? 

BUTLER. 

I read the letter. 

OCTAVIO. 

And SO did I — but the contents were different. 

[Butler is suddenly struck 
By chance I 'm in possession of that letter — 
Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you. 

[He gives him the letter 

BUTLER. 

Ha ! what is this ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I fear me, Colonel Butler, 
An infamous game have they been playing with you 
The Duke, you say, impell'd you to this measure ? 
Now, in this letter talks he in contempt 
Concerning you, counsels the minister 
To give sound chastisement to your conceit. 
For so he calls it. 

[Butler reads through the letter, his knees tremble, 
he seizes a chair, and sinks down in it. 
You have no enemy, no persecutor ; 
There 's no one wishes ill to you. Ascribe 
The insult you received to the Duke only. 
His aim is clear and palpable. He wish'd 
To tear you from your Emperor^ — he hoped 
To gain from your revenge what he well knew 
(What your long-tried fidelity convinced him) 
He ne'er could dare expect from your calm reason. 
A blind tool would he make you, in contempt 
Use you, as means of most abandon'd ends. 
He has gain'd his point. Too well has he succeeded 
In luring you away from that good path 
On which you had been journeying forty years ! 

BUTLER (his voice trembling). 
Can e'er the Emperor's Majesty forgive me? 

OCTAVIO. 

More than forgive you. He would fain compensate 
For that affront, and most unmerited grievance 
Sustain'd by a deserving, gallant veteran. 
From his free impulse he confirms the present. 
Which the Duke made you for a wicked purpose. 
The regiment, which you now command, is your's. 
[Butler attempts to rise, sinks down again. He 
labors inwardly with violent emotions ; tries 
to speak, and cannot. At length he takes his 
sword from the belt, and offers it to Picco- 

LOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

What wish you ? Recollect yourself, friend. 
butler. 

Take it. 

OCTAVIO. 

But to what purpose ? Calm yourself. 

butler. 

O take it! 

I am no longer worthy of this sword. 

OCTAVIO. 

Receive it then anew from my hands — and 
Wear it with honor for the right cause ever. 

butler. 
Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign ! 

OCTAVIO. 

You '11 make amends. Quick ! break off from the Duke ! 
176 



THE PICCOLOMINI. 



167 



BUTLER. 



Break off from him ! 



OCTAVIO. 

What now ? Bethink thyself. 
BUTLER (no longer governing his emotion). 
Only break off from him ? He dies ! he dies ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Come after me to Frauenberg, where now 
All who are loyal, are assembling under 
Counts Altringer and Galas. Many others 
I 've brought to a remembrance of their duty. 
This night be sure that you escape from Pilsen. 

BUTLER {strides up and down in excessive agitation, 
then steps up to Octavio unth resolved countenance). 
Count Piccolomini ! Dare that man speak 
Of honor to you, who once broke his troth ? 

OCTAVIO. 

He, who repents so deeply of it, dares. 

BUTLER. 

Then leave me here, upon my word of honor ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What 's your design ? 

BUTLER. 

Leave me and my regiment. 

OCTAVIO. 

I have full confidence in you. But tell me 
What are you brooding ? 

BUTLER. 

That the deed will tell you. 
Ask me no more at present. Trust to me. 
Ye may trust safely. By the living God 
Ye give him over, not to his good angel ! 
Farewell. [Exit Butler 

SERVANT {enters with a billet). 
A stranger left it, and is gone. 
The Prince-duke's horses wait for you below. 

[Exit Servant 
OCTAVIO (reads). 
*' Be sure make haste ! Your faithful Isolan." 
— that I had but left this town behind me, 
To split upon a rock so near the haven ! — 
Away ! This is no longer a safe place for me ! 
Where can my son be tarrying ? 



SCENE VI. 



Octavio and Max. Piccolominl 

Max. enters almost in a state of derangement from 
extreme agitation, his eyes roll wildly, his walk is 
unsteady, and he appears not to observe his father, 
who stands at a distance, and gazes at him with a 
countenance expressive of compassion. He paces 
with long strides through the chamber, then stands 
still again, and at last throws himself into a chair, 
staring vacantly at the object directly before him. 
OCTAVIO (advances to him). 
I am going ofl^ my son. 

[Receiving no answer, he takes his hand. 
My son, farewell. 

MAX. 

Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou wilt soon follow me ? 



MAX. 

I follow thee ? 
Thy way is crooked — it is not my way. 

[Octavio drops his hand, and starts back. 
O, hadst thou been but simple and sincere, 
Ne'er had it come to this — all had stood otherwise. 
He had not done that foul and horrible deed : 
The virtuous had retain'd their influence o'er him : 
He had not fallen into the snares of villains. 
Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice, 
Didst creep behind him — lurking for thy prey ? 
O, unblest falsehood ! Mother of all evil ! 
Thou misery-making demon, it is thou 
That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth, 
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all ! 
Father, I will not, I can not excuse thee ! 
Wallenstein has deceived me — O, most foully ! 
But thou hast acted not much better. 

OCTAVIO. 

Son! 
My son, ah ! I forgive thy agony ! 

MAX. (rises, and contemplates his father with looks of 

suspicion). 
Was 't possible ? hadst thou the heart, my father, 
Hadst thou the heart to drive it to such lengths, 
With cold premeditated purpose ? Thou — 
Hadst thou the heart, to wish to see him guilty. 
Rather than saved ? Thou risest by his fall. 
Octavio, 't will not please me. 

OCTAVIO. 

God in Heaven ! 

MAX. 

O, woe is me ! sure I have changed my nature. 
How comes suspicion here — in the free soul ? 
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone ; for all 
Lied to me, all that I e'er loved or honor'd. 
No ! no ! not all ! She — she yet lives for me, 
And she is true, and open as the heavens ! 
Deceit is everywhere, hypocrisy, 
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury : 
The single holy spot is our love. 
The only improfaned in human nature. 

OCTAVIO. 

Max.! — we will go together. 'Twill be better. 

MAX. 

What ? ere I 've taken a last parting leave, 
The very last — no, never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Spare thyself 
The pang of necessary separation. 
Come with me ! Come, my son ! 

[Attempts to take him voith him. 

MAX. 

No ! as sure as God lives, no ! 

OCTAVIO (more urgently). 
Come with me, I command thee ! I, thy father. 

MAX. 

Command me what is human. I stay here. 

OCTAVIO. 

Max.! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come. 

MAX. 

No Emperor has power to prescribe 
Laws to the heart ; and wouldst thou wish to rob me 
Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me, 
Her sympathy ? Must then a cruel deed 
Be done with cruelty ? The unalterable 
177 



168 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shall I perform ignobly— steal away. 
With stealthy coward flight forsake her? No ! 
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish, 
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul. 
And weep tears o'er me. Oh ! the human race 
Have steely souls— but she is as an angel. 
From the black deadly madness of despair 
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words 
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou wilt not tear thyself away ; thou canst not. 
O, come, my son ! I bid thee save thy virtue. 

MAX. 

Squander not thou thy words in vain. 
The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it. 

OCTAVIO {trembling, and losing all self-command). 
Max. ! Max. ! if that most damned thing could be. 
If thou — my son — ^my own blood — (dare I think it ?) 
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous, 
Do stamp this brand upon our noble house, 
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed. 
And in unnatural combat shall the steel 
Of the son trickle with the father's blood. 

MAX. 

O hadst thou always better thought of men. 
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion ! 
Unholy, miserable doubt ! To him 
Nothing on earth remains unwrench'd and firm, 
Who has no faith. 

OCTAVIO. 

And if I trust thy heart, 
Will it be always in thy power to follow it ? 



MAX. 

The heart's voice tJiou hast not o'erpower'd — as litl I , 
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it. 

OCTAVIO. 

O, Max. ! I see thee never more again ! 

MAX. 

Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me. 

OCTAVIO. 

I go to Frauenberg — the Pappenheimers 

I leave thee here, the Lothrings too ; Toskana 

And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee. 

They love thee, and are faithful to their oath. 

And will far rather fall in gallant contest 

Than leave, their rightful leader, and their honor. 

MAX. 

Rely on this, I either leave my life 

In the struggle, or conduct them out of Pilsen. 



Farewell, my son ! 



MAX. 

Farewell ! 



OCTAVIO. 

How ! not one look 
Of filial love ? No grasp of the hand at parting ? 
It is a bloody war to which we are going, 
And the event uncertain and in darkness. 
So used we not to part — it was not so ! 
Is it then true ? I have a son no longer ? 

[Max. falls into his arms, they hold each other 
for a long time in a speechless embrace, 
then go away at different sides. 
(The Curtain drops). 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



PREFACE. 

The two Dramas, Piccolomini, or the first part of 
Wallenstein, and Wallenstein, are introduced in 
the original manuscript by a Prelude in one Act, en- 
titled Wallenstein's Camp. This is written in 
rhjnne, and in nine-syllable verse, in the same lilting 
metre (if that expression may be permitted) with the 
second Eclogue of Spencer's Shepherd's Calendar. 

This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humor, and 
is not deficient in character ; but to have translated 
it into prose, or into any other metre than that of the 
original, would have given a false idea both of its 
style and purport ; to have translated it into the same 
metre would been incompatible with a faithful ad- 
herence to the sense of the German, from the com- 
parative poverty of our language in rhymes ; and it 
would have been unadvisable, from the incongruity 
of those lax verses with the present taste of the 
English Public. Schiller's intention seems to have 
been merely to have prepared his reader for the 
Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of dis- 
cipline, and the mutinous dispositions of Wallen- 
stein's soldiery. It is not necessary as a preliminary 



explanation. For these reasons it has been thought 
expedient not to translate it. 

The admirers of Schiller, who have abstracted 
their idea of that author from the Robbers, and the 
Cabal and Love, plays in which the main interest is 
produced by the excitement of curiosity, and in 
which the curiosity is excited by terrible and extra- 
ordinary incident, will not have perused without 
some portion of disappointment the Dramas, which 
it has been my employment to translate. They 
should, however, reflect that these are Historical 
Dramas, taken from a popular German History ; that 
we must therefore judge of them in some measure 
vnth the feelings of Germans ; or by analogy, with 
the interest excited in us by similar Dramas in our 
own language. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant 
enough to compare Schiller with Shakspeare ; yet, 
merely as illustration, I would say that we should 
proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not from Lear 
or Othello, but from Richard the Second, or the three 
parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely expect rapid- 
ity in an Historical Drama ; and many prolix speeches 
are pardoned from characters, whose names and ac- 
tions have formed the most amusing tales of our early 
life. On the other hand, there exist ia these plays 

178 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



169 



more individual beauties, more passages whose ex- 
cellence will bear reflection, than in the former pro- 
ductions of Schiller. The description of the Astro- 
logical Tower, and the reflections of the Young 
Lover, which follow it, form in the original a fine 
poem ; and my translation must have been wretched 
indeed, if it can have wholly overclouded the beauties 
of the Scene in the first Act of the first Play between 
Questenberg, Max., and Octavio Piccolomini. If we 
except the Scene of the setting sun in the Robbers, 
I know of no part in Schiller's Plays which equals 
the whole of the first Scene of the fifth Act of the 
concluding Play. It would be unbecoming in me to 
be more diffuse on this subject. A translator stands 
connected with the original Author by a certain law 
of subordination, which makes it more decorous to 
point out excellencies than defects : indeed he is not 
likely to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or 
disgust from his own labor will mingle with the 
feelings that arise from an after-view of the original, 
Even in the first perusal of a work in any foreign 
language which we understand, we are apt to at- 
tribute to it more excellence than it really possesses, 
from our own pleasurable sense of difficulty over- 
come without effort. Translation of poetry into poetry 
is difficult, because the translator must give a bril- 
liancy to his language without that Warmth of original 
conception, from which such brilliancy would follow 
of its own accord. But the Translator of a living 
Author is encumbered with additional inconveni- 
ences. If he render his original faithfully, as to the 
sense of each passage, he must necessarily destroy a 
considerable portion of the spirit ; if he endeavor to 
give a work executed according to laws of compensa- 
tion, he subjects himself to imputations of vanity, or 
misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to re- 
main bound by the sense of my original, with as few 
exceptions as the nature of the languages rendered 
possible. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



ACT L 



Scene- 



scene I. 

-A Chamber in the House of the Duchess of 
Friedland. 

Countess Tertsky, Thekla, Lady Neubrunn {the 
two latter sit at the same table at worh). 

countess {watching them from the opposite side). 
So you have nothing to ask me — nothing ? 
I have been waiting for a word from you. 
And could you then endure in all this time 
Not once to speak his name ? 

[Thekla remaining silent, the Countess rises 
and advances to her. 

Why, how comes this ? 
Perhaps I am already grown superfluous, 
And other ways exist, besides through me ? 
Confess it to me, Thekla ; have you seen him ? 

THEKLA. 

To-day and yesterday I have not seen him. 

countess. 
And not heard from him, either? Come, be open. 

THEKLA. 

No syllable. 

countess. 
And still you are so calm ? 

THEKLA. 

I am. 

countess. 
May't please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn. 
[Exit Lady Neubrunn 



WALLENSTEIN, DuJce of Friedland, Generalissimo of 
the Imperial forces in the Thirty-years' War. 

Duchess of Friedland, Wife of Wallenstein. 

Thekla, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland. 

The Countess Tertsky, Sister of the Duchess. 

Lady Neubrunn. 

Octavio Piccolomini, Lieutenant-General. 

Max. Piccolomini, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment 
of Cuirassiers. 

Count Tertsky, the Commander of several Regi- 
ments, and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein. 

Illo, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's Confidant. 

Butler, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of 
Dragoons. 

Gordon, Governor of Egra. 

Major Geraldin. 

Captain Devereux. 

Macdonald. 

Neumann, Captain of Cavalry, Aid-de-eampio Tertsky. 

Swedish Captain. 

Seni. 

Burgomaster of Egra. 

Anspessade of the Cuirassiers. 

Croom^oe the Chamber, ^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^ j^^^ 

Cuirassiers, Dragoons, Servants. 



SCENE II. 
The Countess, Thekla. 

countess. 
It does not please me, Princess, that he holds 
Himself so still, exactly at this time. 

thekla. 
Exactly at this time ? 

COUNTESS. 

He now knows all : 
'Twere now the moment to declare himself 

thekla. 
If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly. 

COUNTESS. 

'Twas for that purpose that I bade her leave us. 

Thelka, you are no more a child. Your heart 

Is now no more in nonage : for you love. 

And boldness dwells with love — that you have proved. 

Your nature moulds itself upon your father's 

More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you 

Hear, what were too much for her fortitude. 

THEKLA. 

Enough : no further preface, I entreat you. 
At once, out with it ! Be it what it may, 
It is not possible that it should torture me 
More thaa this introduction. What have you 
To say to me ? Tell me the whole, and briefly ! 

COUNTESS. 

You'll not be frighten'd 

179 



170 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THEKLA. 

Name it, I entreat you. 

COUNTESS. 

It lies within your power to do your father 
A weighty service 

THEKLA. 

lies within my power ? 

COUNTESS. 

Max. Piccolomini loves you. You can link him 
Indissolubly to your father. 

THEKLA. 

I? 

What need of me for that ? And is he not 
Already link'd to him ? 

COUNTESS 

He was. 

THEKLA. 

And wherefore 
Should he not be so now — not be so always ? 

COUNTESS. 

He cleaves to the Emperor too. 

THEKLA. 

Not more than duty 
And honor may demand of him. 

COUNTESS. 

We ask 
Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honor. 
Duty and honor ! 

Those are ambiguous words with many meanings. 
You should interpret them for him : his love 
Should be the sole definer of his honor. 

THEKLA. 

How? 

COUNTESS. 

The Emperor or you must he renounce. 

THEKLA. 

He will accompany my father gladly 

In his retirement. From himself you heard, 

How much he wish'd to lay aside the sword. 

COUNTESS. 

He must tmI lay the sword aside, we mean ; 
He must unsheathe it in your father's cause. 

THEKLA. 

He '11 spend with gladness and alacrity 

His life, his heart's-blood in my father's cause, 

If shame or injury be intended him. 

COUNTESS. 

You will not understand me Well, hear then : — 
Your father has fallen off from the Emperor, 
And is about to join the enemy 
With the whole soldiery 

THEKLA. 

Alas, my mother ! 

COUNTESS. 

There needs a great example to draw on 
The army after him. The Piccolomini 
Possess the love and reverence of the troops ; 
They govern all opinions, and wherever 
They lead the way, none hesitate to follow. 
The son secures the father to our interests — 
You 've much in your hands at this moment. 



Ah, 



My miserable mother ! what a death-stroke 
Awaits thee I — No ! she never will survive it. 



COUNTESS. 

She will accommodate her soul to that 

Which is and must be. I do Imow your mother. 

The far-off future weighs upon her heart 

With torture of anxiety ; but is it 

Unalterably, actually present. 

She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly. 

THEKLA. 

my foreboding bosom ! Even now, 

E'en now 'tis here, that icy hand of horror! 
And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp ; 

1 knew it well — no sooner had I enter'd, 
A heavy ominous presentiment 

Reveal'd to me, that spirits of death were hovering 
Over my happy fortune. But why think I 
First of myself? My mother! O my mother! 

COUNTESS. 

Calm yourself! Break not out in vain lamenting! 
Preserve you for your father the firm friend, 
And for yourself the lover, all will yet 
Prove good and fortimate. 

THEKLA. 

Prove good ! What good ? 
Must we not part ? — part ne'er to meet again ? 

COUNTESS. 

He parts not from you ! He can not part from you 

THEKLA. 

Alas for his sore anguish ! It will rend 
His heart asimder. 

COUNTESS. 

If indeed he loves you 
His resolution will be speedily taken. 

THEKLA. 

His resolution will be speedily taken — 
O do not doubt of that ! A resolution ! 
Does there remain one to be taken ? 

COUNTESS. 

Hush! 

Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming. 

THEKLA. 

How shall I bear to see her ? 

COUNTESS. 

Collect yourself 



SCENE m. 

To them enter the Duchess. 

DUCHESS {to the Countess). 
Who was here, sister ? I heard some one talking, 
And passionately too. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay ! There was no one. 

DUCHESS. 

I am grown so timorous, every trifling noise 
Scatters my spirits, and announces to me 
The footstep of some messenger of evil. 
And you can tell me, sister, what the event is ? 
Will he agree to do the Emperor's pleasure. 
And send the horse-regiments to the Cardinal ? 
Tell me, has he dismiss'd Von Questenberg 
With a favorable answer ? 

COUNTESS. 

No, he has not. 

DUCHESS. 

Alas ! then all is lost ! I see it coming, 
The worst that can come ! Yes, they will depose him; 
180 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



171 



The accursed business of the Regensburg diet 
Will all be acted o'er again ! 

COUNTESS. 

No! never! 
Make your heart easy, sister, as to that. 

[Thekla, in extreme agitation, throws herself upon 
her mother, and enfolds her in her arms, weeping. 

DUCHESS. 

Yes, my poor child! 

Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother 

In the Empress. O that stem unbending man ! 

In this unhappy marriage what have I 

Not suffer'd, not endured ? For even as if 

I had been link'd on to some wheel of fire 

That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward, 

I have pass'd a life of frights and horrors with him, 

And ever to the brink of some abyss 

With dizzy headlong violence he whirls me. 

Nay, do not weep, my child ! Let not my sufferings 

Presignify unhappiness to thee, 

Nor blacken with their shade the fate that waits thee. 

There lives no second Friedland : thou, my child, 

Hast not to fear thy mother's destiny. 

THEKLA. 

let us supplicate him, dearest mother \ 
Quick ! quick ! here 's no abiding-place for us. 
Here every coming hour broods into life 
Some new affrightful monster. 

DUCHESS. 

Thou wilt share 
An easier, calmer lot, my child ! We too, 

1 and thy father, witness'd happy days. 

Still think I with delight of those first years. 
When he was making progress \i\dth glad effort, 
When his ambition was a genial fire. 
Not that consuming flame which now it is. 
The Emperor loved him, trusted him : and all 
He undertook could not but be successful. 
But since that ill-starr'd day at Regensburg, 
Which plunged him headlong from his dignity, 
A gloomy uncompanionable spirit. 
Unsteady and suspicious, has possess'd him. 
His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer 
Did he yield up himself in joy and faith 
To his old luck, and individual power ; 
But thenceforth turn'd his heart and best affections 
All to those cloudy sciences, which never 
Have yet made happy him who foUow'd them. 

COUNTESS. 

You see it, sister ! as your eyes permit you. 

But surely this is not the conversation 

To pass the time in which we are waiting for him. 

You know he will be soon here. Would you have 

him 
Find her in this condition ? 

DUCHESS. 

Come, my child ! 
Come wipe away thy tears, and show thy father 
A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here 
Is oflP— this hair must not hang so dishevell'd. 
Come, dearest ! dry thy tears up. They deform 
Thy gentle eye. — Well now — what was I saying ? 
Yes, in good truth, this Piccolomini 
Is a most noble and deserving gentleman. 

COUNTESS. 

That is he, sister ! 



THEKLA {to the Countess, vAth marks of great oippres- 
sion of spirits). 
Aunt, you will excuse me ? (Is going). 
countess. 
But whither ? See, your father comes. 

THEKLA. 

I carmot see him now. 

countess. 
Nay, but bethink you. 

THEKLA. 

Believe me, I caimot sustain his presence. 

countess. 
But he will miss you, will ask after you. 

DUCHESS. 

What now ? Why is she going ? 

COUNTESS. 

She 's not well. 
DUCHESS {anxiously). 
What ails then my beloved child ? 

[Both follow the Princess, and endeavor to detain 
her. During this Wallen stein appears, engaged 
in conversation with Illo. 



SCENE IV. 



Wallenstein, Illo, Countess, Duchess, Thekla. 

wallenstein. 
All quiet in the camp ? 

ILLO. 

It is all quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In a few hours may couriers come from Prague 

With tidings, that this capital is ours. 

Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops 

Assembled in this town make known the measure 

And its result together. In such cases 

Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost 

Still leads the herd. An imitative creature 

Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other, 

Than that the Pilsen army has gone through 

The forms of homage to us ; and in Pilsen 

They shall swear fealty to us, because 

The example has been given them by Prague. 

Butler, you tell me, has declared himself? 

ILLO, 

At his ovm bidding, unsolicited, 

He came to offer you himself and regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I find we must not give implicit credence 

To every warning voice that makes itself 

Be listen'd to in the heart. To hold us back. 

Oft does the lying Spirit counterfeit 

The voice of Truth and inward Revelation, 

Scattering false oracles. And thus have I 

To entreat forgiveness, for that secretly 

I 've wrong'd this honorable gallant man, 

This Butler : for a feeling, of the which 

I am not master {fear I would not call it), 

Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering. 

At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion. 

And this same man, against whom I am wam'd, 

This honest man is he, who reaches to me 

The first pledge of my fortune. 

ILLO. 

And doubt not 
181 



172 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That his example will win over to you 
The best men in the army. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go and send 
Isolani hither. Send him immediately. 
He is under recent obligations to me : 
With him will I commence the trial. Go. 

[Exit Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN (tums himself round to the females). 
Lo, there the mother with the darling daughter : 
For once we '11 have an interval of rest- 
Come ! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour 
In the beloved circle of my family. 

COUNTESS. 

*Tis long since we've been thus together, brother. 

WALLENSTEIN {to the CouNTESS aside). 
Can she sustain the news ? Is she prepared ? 

COUNTESS. 

Not yet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me, 
For there is a good spirit on thy lips. 
Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill : 
She says a voice of melody dwells in thee. 
Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice 
Will drive away from me the evil demon 
That beats his black wings close above my head. 

DUCHESS. 

Where is thy lute, my daughter ? Let thy father 
Hear some small trial of thy skill. 

THEKLA. 

My mother ! 
I— 

DUCHESS. 

Trembling ? come, collect thyself. Go, cheer 
Thy father. 

THEKLA. 

O my mother ! I — I cannot 

COUNTESS. 

How, what is that, niece ? 

THEKLA {to the Countess). 
O spare me — sing — ^now — in this sore anxiety 
Of the o'erburthen'd soul — to sing to him. 
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong 
Into her grave. 

DUCHESS. 

How, Thekla ! Humorsome ? 
What ! shall thy father have express'd a vidsh 
In vain ? 

countess. 
Here is the lute. 

THEKLA. 

My God ! how can I — 
[ The orchestra plays. During the rilornello Thekla 
expresses in her gestures and countenance the 
^' struggle of her feelings : and at the moment 

that she should begin to sing, contracts her- 
self together, as one shuddering, throws the 
instrument down, and retires abruptly. 

DUCHESS. 

My child ! O she is ill — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What ails the maiden ? 
Say, is she often so ? 

COUNTESS. 

Since then herself 



Has now betray'd it, I too must no longer 
Conceal it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

COUNTESS. 

She loves him! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Loves him! Whom! 

COUNTESS. 

Max. does she love ! Max. Piccolomini. 

Hast thou ne'er noticed it ? Nor yet my sister ? 

DUCHESS. 

Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart ? 

God's blessing on thee, my sweet child thou need'st 

Never take shame upon thee for thy choice. 

COUNTESS. 

This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it 
To thine own self. Thou shouldst have chosen an- 
other 
To have attended her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And does he know it ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes, and he hopes to win her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hopes to win her ! 
Is the boy mad ? 

COUNTESS. 

Well, hear it from themselves. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter! 

Ay ? the thought pleases me. 

The young man has no grovelling spirit. 

COUNTESS 

Since 
Such and such constant favor you have shown him. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He chooses finally to be my heir. 

And true it is, I love the youth ; yea, honor him. 

But must he therefore be my daughter's husband ? 

Is it daughters only ? Is it only children 

That we must show our favor by ? 

DUCHESS. 

His noble disposition and his manners — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Win him my heart, but not my daughter. 

DUCHESS. 

Then 
His rank, his ancestors — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ancestors! What? 
He is a subject, and my son-in-law 
I vdll seek out upon the thrones of Europe. 

DUCHESS. 

O dearest Albrecht ! Climb we not too high. 
Lest we should fall too low. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What ? have I paid 
A price so heavy to ascend this eminence. 
And jut out high above the common herd. 
Only to close the mighty part I play 
In Life's great drama, with a common kinsman ? 
Have I for this — 

[Stops suddenly, repressing himself 
She is the only thing 
That will remain behind of me on earth ; 
And I will see a crown around her head, 

182 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



173 



Or die in the attempt to place it there. 
I hazard all— all ! and for this alone. 
To lift her into greatness — 

Yea, in this moment, in the which we are speaking — 
[He recollects himself. 
And I must now, like a soft-hearted father, 
Couple together in good peasant-fashion 
The pair, that chance to suit each other's liking — 
And I must do it now, even now, when I 
Am stretching out the wreath that is to twine 
My full accomplish'd work — no ! she is the jewel, 
Which I have treasured long, my last, my noblest. 
And 'tis my purpose not to let her from me 
For less than a king's sceptre. 

DUCHESS. 

O my husband ! 
You're ever building, building to the clouds. 
Still building higher, and still higher building, 
And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis 
Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column. > 

WALLENSTEIN {tO the CoUNTESS.) 

Have you announced the place of residence 
Which I have destined for her ? 

COUNTESS. 

No ! not yet. 
T were better you yourself disclosed it to her, 

DUCHESS. 

How ? Do we not return to Kam then ? 



WALLENSTEIN. 



No. 



SCENE V. 

To them enter Count Tertsky. 

COUNTESS. 

—Tertsky! 
What ails him ? What an image of affright f 
He looks as he had seen a ghost. 

tertsky {leading Wallenstein aside). 
Is it thy command that all the Croats — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Mine! 

TERTSKY. 

We are betray'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

TERTSKY. 

They are off! This night 
The Jagers likewise — all the villages 
In the whole round are empty. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Isolani ? 

TERTSKY. 

Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I? 
TERTSKY. 

No ! Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodate \ 
They are vanish'd both of them. 



DUCHESS. 

And to no other of your lands or seats ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You would not be secure there. 

DUCHESS. 

Not secure 
In the Emperor's realms, beneath the Emperor's 
Protection ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Friedland's wife may be permitted 
No longer to hope that. 

DUCHESS. 

O God in Heaven ! 
And have you brought it even to this ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In Holland 
You'll find protection. 

DUCHESS. 

In a Lutheran country ? 
What ? And you send us into Lutheran countries ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Duke Franz of Lauenburg conducts you thither. 

DUCHESS. 

Duke Franz of Lauenburg ? 

The ally of Sweden, the Emperor's enemy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The Emperor's enemies are mine no longer. 
DUCHESS {casting a look of terror on the Duke and the 

Countess.) 
Is it then true ? It is. You are degraded ? 
Deposed from the command ? O God in Heaven ! 

COUNTESS {aside to the Duke). 
Leave her in this behef Thou seest she can not 
Support the real truth. 



SCENE VI. 
To them enter Illo. 

ILLO. 

Has Tertsky told thee ? 

TERTSKY. 

He knows all. 

ILLO. 

And likewise 
That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz, 
Kolatto, Palfi, have forsaken thee. 

TERTSKY. 

Damnation ! 

WALLENSTEIN (vdnJcs at them). 
Hush! 
COUNTESS {who has heen watching them an^dously from 

the distance, and novo advances to them). 
Tertsky ! Heaven ! What is it ? What has happen'd ? 

WALLENSTEIN {scarcely suppressing his emotion). 
Nothing! let us be gone ! 

TERTSKY {following Mm). 

Theresa, it is nothing. 
COUNTESS {holding him hack). 
Nothing ? Do I not see, that all the life-blood 
Has left your cheeks — look you not like a ghost ? 
That even my brother but affects a calmness ? 

PAGE {enters). 
An Aid-de-Camp inquires for the Count Tertsky. 
[Tertsky /oZZows the Page. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go, hear his business. 

{To Illo). 
This could not have happen'd 
So unsuspected without mutiny. 
Who was on guard at the gates ? 

ILLO. 

'Twas Tiefenbach. 
183 



174 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Let Tiefenbach leave guard without delay, 
And Tertsky's grenadiers relieve him. 
(Illo is going). 

Stop! 
Hast thou heard aught of Butler ? 

ILLO. 

Him I met : 
He will be here himself immediately. 
Butler remains unshaken. 

[Illo exit. Wallenstein is following him. 

COUNTESS. 

Let him not leave thee, sister ! go, detain him ! 
There 's some misfortune. 

DUCHESS (clinging to Mm). 

Gracious Heaven ! what is it ? 
wallenstein. 
Be tranquil ' leave me, sister ! dearest wife ! 
We are in camp, and this is naught unusual ; 
Here storm and sunshine follow one another 
With rapid interchanges. These fierce spirits 
Champ the curb angrily, and never yet 
Did quiet bless the temples of the leader. 
If I am to stay, go you. The plaints of women 
111 suit the scenes where men must act. 

[He is going : Tertsky retttrns. 
tertsky. 
Remain here. From this window must we see it. 

WALLENSTEIN (tO the CoUNTESS). 

Sister, retire ! 

COUNTESS. 

No — ^never. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis my v^dll. 
TERTSKY (leads the Countess aside, and dramng her 

attention to the Duchess). 
Theresa ! 

duchess. 
Sister, come i since he commands it. 



SCENE VII. 

Wallenstein, Tertsky. 

WALLENSTEIN (stepping to the vdndow). 
What now, then? 

TERTSKY. 

There are strange movements among all the troops, 

And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously, 

With gloomy silence, the several corps 

Marshal themselves, each under its own banners. 

Tiefenbach's corps make threat'ning movements ; only 

The Pappenheimers still remain aloof 

In their own quarters, and let no one enter. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Does Piccolomini appear among them ? 

TERTSKY. 

We are seeking him : he is nowhere to be met with 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What did the Aid-de-Camp deliver to you ? 

TERTSKY. 

My regiments had dispatch'd him ; yet once more 

They swear fidelity to thee, and wait 

The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But whence arose this larum in the camp ? 



It should have been kept secret from the army, 
Till fortune had decided for us at Prague. 

TERTSKY. 

that thou hadst believed me ! Yester-evening 
Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker. 
That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen. 

Thou gavest him thy own horses to flee from thee- 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The old tune still ! Now, once for all, no more 
Of this suspicion — it is doting folly. 

TERTSKY. 

Tliou didst confide in Isolani too ; 

And lo ! he was the first that did desert thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It was but yesterday I rescued him 

From abject wretchedness. Let that go by ; 

1 never reckon'd yet on gratitude. 

And wherein doth he wrong in going from me ? 
He follows still the god whom all his life 
He has worshipp'd at the gaming-table. With 
My fortune, and my seeming destiny. 
He made the bond, and broke it not with me. 
1 am but the ship in which his hopes were stow'd^ 
And with the which well-pleased and confident 
He traversed the open sea ; now he beholds it 
In eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks. 
And hurries to preserve his wares. As light 
As the free bird from the hospitable twig 
Where it had nested, he flies ofl^ from me : 
No human tie is snapp'd betwixt us two. 
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived 
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man. 
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life 
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead. 
Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth : 
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure 
Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul 
Warmeth the inner frame. 

TERTSKY. 

Yet, would I rather 
Trust the smooth brow than that deep-furrow'd one. 



SCENE vin. 

Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo. 

ILLO (who enters agitated with rage). 
Treason and mutiny! 

TERTSKY. 

And what further now ? 
illo. 
Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders 
To go off guard— Mutinous villains ! 

TERTSKY. 

Well! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What followed ? 

ILLO. 

They refused obedience to them. 

TERTSKY. 

Fire on them instantly ! Give out the order. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Gently ! what cause did they assign ? 

ILLO. 

No other. 
They said, had right to issue orders but 
Lieutenant-General Piccolomini. 

184 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



175 



WALLENSTEIN {in a convulsioTi of agony). 
What? How is that? 

ILLO. 

He takes that office on him by commission, 
Under sign-manual of the Emperor. 

TERTSKY. 

From the Emperor — hear'st thou, Duke ? 

ILLO. 

At his incitement 
The Generals made that stealthy flight— 

TERTSKY. 

Duke ! hear'st thou ? 

ILLO. 

Caraffa too, and Montecuculi, 

Are missing, with six other Generals, 

All whom he had induced to follow him. 

This plot he has long had in writing by him 

From the Emperor ; but 'twas finally concluded 

With all the detail of the operation 

Some days ago with the Envoy Questenberg. 

[WALLENSTEIN sinks down into a chair, and covers 
his face. 

TERTSKY. 

O hadst thou but believed me ! ' 



SCENE IX. 
To them enter the Countess. 

COUNTESS. 

This suspense, 
This horrid fear — I can no longer bear it. 
For heaven's sake, tell me, what has taken place ? 

ILLO. 

The regiments are all falling off from us. 

TERTSKY. 

Octavio Piccolomini is a traitor. 

COUNTESS. 

O my foreboding ! [Rushes out of the room. 

TERTSKY. 

Hadst thou but believed me ! 
Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The stars lie not; but we have here a work 

Wrought counter to the stars and destiny. 

The science is still honest : this false heart 

Forces a lie on the truth-telling heaven. 

On a divine law divination rests ; 

Where Nature deviates from that law, and stumbles 

Out of her limits, there all science errs. 

True, I did not suspect ! Were it superstition 

Never by such suspicion t' have affronted 

The human form, O may that time ne'er come 

In which I shame me of the infirmity. 

The wildest savage drinks not with the vidtim. 

Into whose breast he means to plunge the sword. 

This, this, Octavio, was no hero's deed : 

'T was not thy prudence that did conquer mine ; 

A bad heart triumph'd o'er an honest one. 

No shield received the assassin stroke ; thou plungest 

Thy weapon on an unprotected breast — 

Against such weapons I am but a child. 



SCENE X. 
To these enter Butler. 
TERTSKY ( meeting him). 
O look there ! Butler ! Here we 've still a friend I 



WALLENSTEIN {meets him with outspread arms, arid 

embraces him with warmth). 
Come to my heart, old comrade ! Not the sun 
Looks out upon us more revivingly 
In the earliest month of spring, 
Than a friend's countenance in such an hour. 

BUTLER. 

My General : I come — 

WALLENSTEIN {leaning on Butler's shoulders). 

Know'st thou already ? 
That old man has betray'd me to the Emperor. 
What say'st thou ? Thirty years have we together 
Lived out, and held out, sharing joy and hardship. 
We have slept in one camp-bed, drunk from one glass, 
One morsel shared ! I lean'd myself on him, 
As now I lean me on thy faithful shoulder. 
And now in the very moment, when, all love. 
All confidence, my bosom beat to his. 
He sees and takes the advantage, slabs the knife 
Slowly into my heart. 

[He hides his face on Butler's breast. 

butler. 

Forget the false one. 
What is your present purpose ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well remember'd ! 
Courage, my soul ! I am still rich in friends, 
Still loved by Destiny ; for in the moment. 
That it unmasks the plotting hypocrite. 
It sends and proves to me one faithful heart. 
Of the hypocrite no more ! Think not, his loss 
Was that which struck the pang : O no ! his treason 
Is that which strikes this pang ! No more of him ! 
Dear to my heart, and honor'd were they both, 
And the young man — yes — he did truly love me, 
He — he — has not deceived me. But enougl> 
Enough of this — Swift counsel now beseems us. 
The courier, whom Count Kinsky sent from Prague, 
I expect him every moment : and whatever 
He may bring with him, we must take good care 
To keep it from the mutineers. Quick, then ! 
Dispatch some messenger you can rely on 
To meet him, and conduct him to me. 

[Illo is going. 

butler {detaining him). 
My General, whom expect you then ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The courier 
Who brings me word of the event at Prague. 

butler Qiesitating). 



Hem! 



WALLENSTEIN. 

And what now ? 



butler. 
You do not know it ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 



Well ? 



butler. 
From what that larum in the camp arose ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From what ? 

butler. 
That courier 

WALLENSTEIN {with eager expectation). 



Well? 



185 



176 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



BUTLER. 

Is already here. 
TERTSKY and ILLO (a« the same time). 
Already here ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

My courier ? 

BUTLER. 

For some hours. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And I not know it ? 

BUTLER. 

The sentinels detain him 
In custody. 

ILLO {stamping with his foot). 
Damnation ! 

BUTLER. 

And his letter 
Was broken open, and is circulated 
Through the whole camp. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You know what it contains ? 



Question me not ! 



TERTSKY. 

lUo ! alas for us. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Hide nothing from me — I can hear the worst. 
Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely. 

BUTLER. 

Yes ! Prague is lost. And all the several regiments 

At Budweiss, Tabor, Brannau, Konigingratz, 

At Brun and Znaym, have forsaken you. 

And ta'en the oaths of fealty anew 

To the Emperor. Yourself, with Kinsky, Tertsky, 

And Illo have been sentenced. 

[Tertsky and Illo express alarm and fury. 
WALLENSTEIN remains firm and collected. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'T is decided ! 
'Tis well! I have received a sudden cure 
From all the pangs of doubt : with steady stream 
Once more my life-blood flows ! My soul 's secure ! 
In the night only Friedland's stars can beam. 
Lingering irresolute, with fitful fears 
I drew the sword — 'twas with an inward strife, 
While yet the choice was mine. The murderous knife 
Is lifted for my heart ! Doubt disappears ! 
I fight now for my head and for my life. 

[Exit WALLENSTEIN ; the others follow him. 



SCENE XI. 



COUNTESS TERTSKY [enters from a side-room). 

I can endure no longer. No ! 

{Looks around her. 
Where are they ? 
No one is here. They leave me all alone, 
Alone in this sore anguish of suspense. 
And I must wear the outward show of calmness 
Before my sister, and shut in within me 
The pangs and agonies of my crowded bosom. 
It is not to be borne. — If all should fail ; 
If— if he must go over to the Swedes, 
An empty-handed fugitive, and not 
As an ally, a covenanted equal, 



A proud commander with his army following ; 
If we must wander on from land to land, 
Like the Count Palatine, of fallen greatness 
An ignominious monument — But no ! 
That day I will not see ! And could himself 
Endure to sink so low, I would not bear 
To see him so low sunken. 



SCENE XII. 
Countess, Duchess, Thekla. 
THEKLA {endeavoring to hold back the DuCHESS;. 
Dear mother, do stay here ! 

DUCHESS. 

No ! Here is yet 
Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me. 
Why does my sister shun me ? Don't I see her 
Full of suspense and anguish roam about 
From room to room? — Art thou not full of terror? 
And what import these silent nods and gestures 
Which stealthwise thou exchangest with her ? 



Nothinsc, dear mother ! 



Nothing , 



DUCHESS (to the Countess). 

Sister, I will know. 

COUNTESS. 

What boots it now to hide it from her ? Sooner 

Or later she must learn to hear and bear it. 

'Tis not the time now to indulge infirmity ; 

Courage beseems us now, a heart collect, 

And exercise and previous discipline 

Of fortitude. One word, and over with it ! 

Sister, you are deluded. You believe. 

The Duke has been deposed — ^The Duke is riot 

Deposed — he is ■ 

THEKLA {going to the CoUNTESS) 

What ? do you wish to kill her ? 

COUNTESS. 

The Duke is 

THEKLA {throwing her arms around her mother). 

O stand firm! stand firm, my mother! 

COUNTESS. 

Revolted is the Duke ; he is preparing 
To join the enemy ; the drmy leave him, 
And all has fail'd. 



ACT IL 

SCENE I. 

Scene — A spacious room in the Duke op Friedland's 
Palace. 

(WALLENSTEIN in armor). 
Thou hast gain'd thy, point, Octavio ! Once more ami 
Almost as friendless as at Regensburg. 
There I had nothing left me, but myself— 
But what one man can do, you have now experience 
The twigs have you hew'd off) and here I stand 
A leafless trunk. But in the sap within 
Lives the creating power, and a new world 
May sprout forth from it. Once already have I 
Proved myself worth an army to you — I alone ! 
Before the Swedish strength your troops had melted, 
Beside the Lech sunk Tilly, your last hope : 

186 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



177 



Into Bavaria, like a winter torrent, 

Did that Gustavus pour, and at Vienna 

In his own palace did the Emperor tremble. 

Soldiers were scarce, for still the multitude 

Follow the luck : all eyes were turn'd on me, 

Their helper in distress : the Emperor's pride 

Bow'd itself down before the man he had injured. 

'T was I must rise, and with creative word 

Assemble forces in the desolate camps. 

I did it. Like a god of war, my name 

Went through the world. The drum was beat — and, lo ! 

The plow, the work-shop is forsaken, all 

Swarm to the old familiar long-loved banners 5 

And as the wood-choir rich in melody 

Assemble quick around the bird of wonder. 

When first his throat swells with his magic song. 

So did the warlike youth of Germany 

Crowd in around the image of my eagle. 

I feel myself the being that I was. 

It is the soul that builds itself a body. 

And Friedland's camp will not remain unfiU'd. 

Lead then your thousands out to meet me — true ! 

They are accustom'd under me to conquer. 

But not against me. If the head and limbs 

Separate from each other, 'twill be soon 

Made manifest, in which the soul abode. 

(Illo and Tertsky enter). 
Courage, friends! Courage ! We are still unvanquish'd; 
I feel my footing firm ; five regiments, Tertsky, 
Are still our own, and Butler's gallant troops ; 
And a host of sixteen thousand Swedes to-morrow. 
I was not stronger, when nine years ago 
I march'd forth, with glad heart and high of hope, 
To conquer Germany for the Emperor. 



SCENE 11. 

Wallenstein, Illo, Tertsky. {To them enter Neu- 
mann, who leads Tertsky aside, and talks with 
him). 

tertsky. 

What do they want ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What now ? 
tertsky. 

Ten Cuirassiers 
From Pappenheim request leave to address you 
In the name of the regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN (hastily to Neumann). 
Let them enter. 

[Exit Neumann. 
This 
May end in something. Mark you. They are still 
Doubtful, and may be won. 



SCENE III. 
Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo, Ten Cuirassiers 
(led by an Anspessade,* mnrch up and arrange 
themselves, after the word of command, in one 
front before the Duke, and make their obeisance. 
He takes his hat off, and immediately covers him- 
self again). 

anspessade. 
Halt! Front! Present! 



* Anspessade, in German, Gefreiter, a soldier inferior to a 
corporal, but above the sentinels. The German name implies 
that he is exempt from mounting guard. 



WALLENSTEIN (flfter he has run through them with his 
eye, to the Anspessade). 
I know thee well. Thou art out of Briiggin in Flan- 
ders : thy name is Mercy. 

anspessade. 

Henry Mercy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou wert cut off on the march, surrounded by 
the Hessians, and didst fight thy way with a hun- 
dred and eighty men through their thousand. 

anspessade. 
T was even so, General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What reward hadst thou for this gallant exploit ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

That which I asked for : the honor to serve in this 
corps, 

WALLENSTEIN {turning to a second). 

Thou wert among the volunteers that seized and 
made booty of the Swedish battery at Altenburg. 

SECOND cuirassier. 

Yes, General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I forget no one with whom I have exchanged words. 
{A pause). Who sends you ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Your noble regiment, the Cuirassiers of Piccoloraini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Why does not your colonel deliver in your request, 
according to the custom of service ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Because we would first know whom we serve. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Begin your address. 

ANSPESSADE {giving the word of command). 
Shoulder your arms ! 

WALLENSTEIN {turning to a third). 
Thy name is Risbeck ; Cologne is thy birth-place. 

THIRD CUIRASSIER. 

Risbeck of Cologne. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It was thou that broughtest in the Swedish colonel 
Diebald, prisoner, in the camp at Niiremberg. 

THIRD CUIRASSIER. 

It was not I, General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Perfectly right ! It was thy elder brother : thou hadst 
a younger brother too : where did he stay ? 

THIRD CUIRASSIER. 

He is stationed at Olmiitz with the Imperial army. 

WALLENSTEIN {tO the ANSPESSADE). 

Now then — begin. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There came to hand a letter from the Emperor, 

Commanding us 

WALLENSTEIN {interrupting him). 
Who chose you ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Every company 
Drew its ovm man by lot. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now ! to the business. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There came to hand a letter from the Emperor, 
Commanding us collectively, from thee 

187 



178 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All duties of obedience to withdraw, 
Because thou wert an enemy and traitor. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And what did you determine ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

All our comrades 
At Braunnau, Budweiss, Prague and Olmiilz, have 
Obey'd already ; and the regiments here, 
Tiefenbach and Toscano, instantly 
Did follow their example. But — but we 
Do not believe that thou art an enemy 
And traitor to thy country, hold it merely 
For lie and trick, and a trump'd-up Spanish story ? 

[Wilh warmth. 
Thyself shalt tell us what thy purpose is. 
For we have found thee still sincere and true : 
No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt 
The gallant General and the gallant troops. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Therein I recognize my Pappenheimers. 

ANSPESSADE. 

And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee : 

Is it thy purpose merely to preserve 

In thy own hands this military sceptre, 

Which so becomes thee, which the Emperor 

Made over to thee by a covenant ? 

Is it thy purpose merely to remain 

Supreme commander of the Austrian armies ? — 

We will stand by thee, General ! and guaranty 

Thy honest rights against all opposition. 

And should it chance, that all the other regiments 

Turn from thee, by ourselves will we stand forth 

Thy faithful soldiers, and, as is our duty, 

Far rather let ourselves be cut to pieces, 

Than suffer thee to fall. But if it be 

As the Emperor's letter says, if it be true, 

That thou in traitorous wise will lead us over 

To the enemy, which God in heaven forbid ! 

Then we too will forsake thee, and obey 

That letter 

WALLENSTEirJ. 

Hear me, children ! 



Yes, or no ! 



There needs no other answer. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Yield attention. 
You 're men of sense, examine for yourselves ; 
Ye think, and do not follow with the herd : 
And therefore have I always shown you honor 
Above all othere, sufTer'd you to reason ; 
Have treated you as free men, and my orders 
Were but the echoes of your prior suffrage. — 

ANSPESSADE. 

Most fair and noble has thy conduct been 

To us, my General ! With thy confidence 

Thou hast honor'd us, and shown us grace and favor 

Beyond all other regiments ; and thou see'st 

We follow not the common herd. We will 

Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word— 

Thy word shall satisfy us, that it is not 

A treason which thou meditatest — that 

Thou meanest not to lead the army over 

To the enemy ; nor e'er betray thy country. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Me, me are they betraying. The Emperor 



Hath sacrificed me to my enemies, 

And I must fall, unless my gallant troops 

Will rescue me. See ! I confide in you. 

And be your hearts my strong-hold ! At this breast 

The aim is taken, at this hoary head. 

This is your Spanish gratitude, this is our 

Requital for that murderous fight at Lutzen I 

For this we threw the naked breast against 

The halbert, made for this the frozen earth 

Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow ! never stream 

Too rapid for us, nor wood too impervious : 

With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfield 

Through all the turns and windings of his flight ; 

Yea, our whole life was but one restless march j 

And homeless as the stirring wind, we travell'd 

O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, even now. 

That we have well-nigh finish'd the hard toil, 

The unthankful, the curse-laden toil of weapons. 

With faithful indefatigable arm 

Have roll'd the heavy war-load up the hlH, 

Behold ! this boy of the Emperor's bears away 

The honors of the peace, an easy prize ! 

He '11 weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks 

The olive-branch, the hard-earn'd ornament 

Of this gray head, grown gray beneath the helmet 

ANSPESSADE. 

That shall he not, while we can hinder it ! 

No one, but thou, who hast conducted it 

With fame, shall end this war, this frightful war. 

Thou ledd'st us out into the bloody field 

Of death ,• thou and no other shall conduct us home. 

Rejoicing to the lovely plains of peace — 

Shalt share with us the fruits of the long" tcal-^ 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What ? Think you then at length in late old &g& 
To enjoy the fruits of toil ? Believe it not. 
Never, no never, will you see the end 
Of the contest ! you and me, and all of us, 
This war vdll swallow up ! War, war, not peace. 
Is Austria's vdsh ; and therefore, because I 
Endeavor'd after peace, therefore I fall. 
For what cares Austria, how long the war 
Wears out the armies and lays waste the world ? 
She will but wax and grow amid the ruin, 
And still win new domains. 
[The Cuirassiers express agitation by their gestures. 
Ye 're moved — I see 
A noble rage flash from your eyes, ye warriors ! 
Oh that my spirit might possess you now 
Daring as once it led you to the battle ! 
Ye would stand by me with your veteran arms, 
Protect me in my rights ; and this is noble ! 
But think not that you can accomplish it. 
Your scanty number ! to no purpose will you 
Have sacrificed you for your General. 

[Confidentially 
No ! let us tread securely, seek for friends ! 
The Swedes have profFer'd us assistance, let us 
Wear for a while the appearance of good- will, 
And use them for your profit, till we both 
Carry the fate of Europe in our hands. 
And from our camp to the glad jubilant world 
Lead Peace forth with the garland on her head ! 

ANSPESSADE. 

'Tis then but mere appearances which thou 
Dost put on with the Swede ? Thou 'It not betray 

188 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



179 



The Emperor ? Wilt not turn us into Swedes ? 
This is the only thing which we desire 
To learn from thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What care I for the Swedes ? 
I hate them as I hate the pit of hell, 
And under Providence I trust right soon 
To chase them to their homes across the Baltic. 
My cares are only for the whole : I have 
A heart — it bleeds within me for the miseries 
And piteous groaning of my fellow Germans. 
Ye are but common men, but yet ye think 
With minds not common ,• ye appear to me 
Worthy before all others, that I whisper ye 
A little word or two in confidence ! 
See now I already for full fifteen years 
The "war-torch has continued burning, yet 
No rest, no pause of conflict, Swede and German, 
Papist and Lutheran ! neither will give way 
To the other, every hand's against the other. 
Each one is party, and no one a judge. 
Where shall this end ? Where 's he that will unravel 
This tangle, ever tangling more and more. 
It must be cut asunder. 
I feel that I am the man of destiny, 
And trust, with your assistance, to accomplish it. 



SCENE IV. 

To these enter Butler. 
BUTLER {passionately). 
General ! this is not right ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What is not right ? 

BUTLER. 

It miKt needs injure us with all honest men. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But what f 

BUTLER. 

It is an open proclamation 
Of insurrection. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well, well — but what is it ? 

BUTLER, 

Count Tertsky's regiments tear the Imperial Eagle 
From off the banners, and instead of it, 
Have rear'd aloft thy arms. 

ANSPESSADE {abruptly to the Cuirassiers). 

Right about ! March ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Cursed be this counsel, and accursed who gave it ! 

[To Oie Cuirassiers, who are retiring. 
Halt, children, halt 1 There 's some mistake in this ; 
Hark ! — I will punish it severely. Stop ! 
They do not hear. {To Illo). Go after them, assure 

them, 
And bring them back to me, cost what it may. 

[Illo hurries out. 
This hurls us headlong. Butler ! Butler ! 
You are my evil genius : wherefore must you 
Announce it in their presence ? It was all 
In a fair way. They were half won, those madmen 
With their improvident over-readiness — 
A cruel game is Fortune playing with me. 
The zeal of friends it is that raZes me, 
And not the hate of enemies. 



SCENE V. 

To these enter the Duchess, who rushes into the Cham- 
ber. Thekla and ike Countess follow her. 

duchess. 

O Albrecht ! 
What hast thou done ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And now comes this beside. 

GOUNTESS. 

Forgive me, brother ! It was not in my power. 
They know all. 

DUCHESS. 

What hast thou done ? 

COUNTESS {to TeRTSKY). 

Is there no hope ? Is all lost utterly ? 

TERTSKY. 

All lost. No hope. Prague in the Emperor's hands, 
The soldiery have ta'en their oaths anew. 

COUNTESS. 

That lurking hypocrite, Octavio ! 
Count Max. is off too ? 

TERTSKY. 

Where can he be ? He 's 
Gone over to the Emperor with his father. 

[Thekla rushes out into the arms of her mother, 
hiding her face in her bosom. 

DUCHESS {infolding her in her arms). 
Unhappy child ! and more imhappy mother ! 

WALLENSTEIN {aside to Tertsky). 
Quick ! Let a carriage stand in readiness 
In the court behind the palace. Scherfenberg 
Be their attendant ; he is faithful to us ; 
To Egra he '11 conduct them, and we follow. 

[To Illo, who returns. 
Thou hast not brought them back ? 

ILLO. 

Hear'st thou the uproar ? 
The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is 
Drawn out : the younger Piccolomini, 
Their colonel, they require : for they affirm, 
That he is in the palace here, a prisoner ; 
And if thou dost not instantly deliver him, 
They will find means to free him with the sword. 

[AU stand amazed. 

TERTSKY. 

What shall we make of this ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Said I not so ? 

my prophetic heart ! he is still here. 

He has not betray'd me — he could not betray me. 

1 never doubted of it. 

COUNTESS. 

If he be 
Still here, then all goes well ; for I know what 

[Embracing Thekla. 
Will keep him here for ever. 

TERTSKY. 

It can't be. 
His father has betray'd us, is gone over 
To the Emperor — the son could not have ventured 
To stay behind. 

THEKLA (her eye fsced on the door). 
There he is ! 

189 



180 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE VI. 
To these enter Max. Piccolomini. 

MAX. 

Yes ! here he is ! I can endure no longer 
To creep on tiptoe round this house, and lurk 
In ambush for a favorable moment : 
This loitering, this suspense exceeds my powers. 

[Advancing to Thekla, who has thrown herself 

into her mother's arms. 
'Turn not thine eyes away. O look upon me ! 
Confess it freely before all. Fear no one. 
Let who will hear that we both love each other. 
Wherefore continue to conceal it ? Secrecy 
;Is for the happy — misery, hopeless misery, 
-Needeth no evil ! Beneath a thousand suns 
tit dares act openly. 

[He observes the Countess looking on Thekla 

with expressions of triumph. 
No, Lady! No! 
Expect not, hope it not. I am not come 
'To stay : to bid farewell, farewell for ever, 
-For this I come ! 'Tis over ! I must leave thee ! 
'Thekla, I must — must leave thee ! Yet thy hatred 
Let me not take with me. I pray thee, grant me 
One look of sympathy, only one look. 
■Say that thou dost not hate me. Say it to me, Thekla ! 

[Grasps her hand. 

God ! I cannot leave this spot — I carmot ! 
Cannot let go this hand. O tell me, Thekla ! 
That thou dost suffer with me, art convinced 
That I can not act otherwise. 

[Thekla, avoiding his look, points with her hand 
to her father. Max. turns round to the Duke, 
whom he had not till then perceived. 
Thou here ? It was not thou, whom here I sought. 

1 trusted never more to have beheld thee. 
My business is with her alone. Here will I 
Receive a full acquittal from this heart — 
For any other I am no more concern'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Think'st thou, that, fool-like, I shall let thee go, 
And act the mock-magnanimous with thee ? 
Thy father is becomie a villain to me ; 
I hold thee for his son, and nothing more : 
Nor to no purpose shalt thou have been given 
Into my power. Think not, that I will honor 
That ancient love, which so remorselessly 
He mangled. They are now past by, those hours 
Of friendship and forgiveness. Hate and vengeance 
Succeed — 't is now their turn — I too can throw 
All feelings of the man aside — can prove 
Myself as much a monster as thy father ! 

MAX. (calmly). 
Tliou wilt proceed with me, as thou hast power. 
Thou know'st, I neither brave nor fear thy rage. 
What has detain'd me here, that too thou know'st. 

[Taking Thekla by the hand. 
See, Duke ! All — all would I have owed to thee, 
Would have received from thy paternal hand 
The lot of blessed spirits. This hast thou 
Laid yvaste for ever — that concerns not thee. 
Indiiferent thou tramplest in the dust 
Their happiness, who most are thine. The god 
Whom thou dost serve, is no benignant deity. 



Like as the blind irreconcilable 

Fierce element, incapable of compact. 

Thy heart's wild impulse only dost thou follow.* 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou art describing thy own father's heart. 

The adder ! O, the charms of hell o'erpower'd me. 

He dwelt within me, to my inmost soul 

Still to and fro he pass'd, suspected never ! 

On the wide ocean, in the starry heaven 

Did mine eyes seek the enemy, whom I 

In my heart's heart had folded ! Had I been 

To Ferdinand what Octavio was to me, 

War had I ne'er denounced against him. No, 

I never could have done it. The Emperor was 

My austere master only, not my friend. 

There was already war 'twixt him and me 

When he deliver'd the Commander's Staff 

Into my hands ; for there 's a natural 

Unceasing war 'twixt cunning and suspicion ; 

Peace exists only betvnxt confidence 

And faith. Who poisons confidence, he murders 

The future generations. 

MAX. 

I will not 

Defend my father. Woe is me, I cannot ! 
Hard deeds and luckless have ta'en place ; one crime 
Drags after it the other in close link. 



* I have here ventured to omit a considerable number of 
lines. I fear that I should not have done amiss, had I taken 
this liberty more frequently. It is, however, incumbent on me 
to give the original with a literal translation. 

Weh denen, die auf Dich vertraun, an Dich 
Die sichre Hiitte ihres Gliickes lehnen, 
Gelockt von Deiner geistlichen Gestalt, 
Schnell unverhofft, bei naechtlich stiller Weile 
Gsehrts in dem tiickschen Feuerschlunde, ladet 
Sich aus mit tobender Gewalt, und weg 
Treibt iiber alle Pflanzungen der Menschen 
Der wilde Strom in grausender Zerstoerung. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Du schilderst Deines Vaters Herz. Wie Du's 
Beschreibst, so ist's in seinem Eingeweide, 
In dieser schwarzen Heuchlers Brust gestaltet. 
O, mich hat Hoellenkunst getseuschl ! Mir sandte 
Der Abgrund den verflecktesten der Geister, 
Den Liigenkundigsten herauf, und stellt' ihn 
Als Freund an meine Seite. Wer vermag 
Der Hcelle Macht zu widerstehn ! Ich zog 
Den Basilisken auf an meinem Busen, 
Mit meinem Herzbiut naehrt ich ihn, er sog 
Sich schwelgend voll an meiner Liebe Briisten, 
Ich hatte nimmer Arges gegen ihn, 
Weit ofFen Hess ich des Gedankens There, 
Und warf die Schliissel weiser Vorsicht weg. 
Am Sternenhimmel, etc. 

LITERAL TRANSLATION. 
Alas ! for those who place their confidence on thee, against 
thee lean the secure hut of their fortune, allured by thy hos- 
pitable form. Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a moment still as 
night, there is a fermentation in the treacherous gulf of fire; it 
discharges itself with raging force, and away over all the plan- 
tations of men drives the wild stream in frightful devastation. 
Wallcnstein. Thou art portraying thy father's heart; as thou | 
describest, even so is it shaped in his entrails, in this black hypo- 
crite's breast. O, the art of hell has deceived me! The Abyss 
sent up to me the most spotted of the spirits, the most skilful iq 
lies, and placed him as a friend by my side. Who may with 
stand the power of hoU ? I took the basihsk t-o my bosom, with 
my heart's blood I nourish'd him ; he sucked himself glutful at 
the breasts of my love. I never harbored evil towards him ; 
wide open did I leave the door of my thoughts ; I threw away 
the key of wise foresight. In the starry heaven, etc .-^ We find 
a difficulty in believing this to have been written by Schiller. 
190 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



181 



But we are innocent: how have we fallen 

Into this circle of mishap and guilt ? 

To whom have we been faithless ? Wherefore must 

The evil deeds and guilt reciprocal 

Of our two fathers twine like serpents round us ? 

Why must our fathers' 
Unconquerable hate rend us asunder 
Who love each other ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max., remain with me. 
Go you not from me, Max. ! Hark ! I will tell thee — 
How when at Prague, our winter-quarters, thou 
Wert brought into my tent a tender boy, 
Not yet accustom'd to the German winters 5 
Thy hand was frozen to the heavy colors ; 
Thou wouldst not let them go. — 
At that time did I take thee in my arms, 
And with my mantle did I cover thee ; 
I was thy nurse, no woman could have been 
A kinder to thee ,• I was not ashamed 
To do for thee all little offices. 
However strange to me ; I tended thee 
Till life return'd ; and when thine eyes first open'd, 
1 had thee in my arms. Since then, when have I 
Alter'd my feelings towards thee ? Many thousands 
Have I made rich, presented them with lands ; 
Rewarded them with dignities and honors ; 
Thee have I loved .- my heart, myself, I gave 
To thee ! They all were aliens : thou wert 
Our child and inmate.* Max. ! Thou canst not leave 

me; 
It can not be ; I may not, will not think 
That Max. can leave me. 

MAX. 

O my God ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I have 
Held and sustain'd thee from thy tottering childhood. 
What holy bond is there of natural love ? 
What human tie, that does not knit thee to me ? 
I love thee, Max. ! What did thy father for thee, 
Which I too have not done, to the height of duty ? 
Go hence, forsake me, serve thy Emperor ; 
He will reward thee with a pretty chain 
Of gold ; with his ram's fleece will he reward thee ; 
For that the friend, the father of thy youth, 
For that the holiest feeling of humanity, 
Was nothing worth to thee. 

MAX. 

O God ! how can I 
Do otherwise ? Am I not forced to do it, 
My oath — my duty — honor — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How? Thy duty? 
Duty to whom ? Who art thou ? Max. ! bethink thee 
What duties mayst thou have ? If I am acting 
A criminal part toward the Emperor, 
It Ls my crime, not thine. Dost thou belong 
To thine own self? Art thou thine own commander? 
Stand 'st thou, like me, a freeman in the world. 
That in thy actions thou shouldst plead free agency? 



* This is a poor and inadequate translation of the affectionate 
simplicity of the original — 

Sie aile waren Fremdlinge, Du warst 
Das Kind des Hauses. 
Indeed the whole speech is in the best style of Massinger. O 
Bi sic omnia ! 



On me thou 'rt planted, I am thy Emperor ; 

To obey me, to belong to me, this is 

Thy honor, this a law of nature to thee ! 

And if the planet, on the which thou livest 

And hast thy dwelling, from its orbit starts, 

It is not in thy choice, whether or no 

Thou 'It follow it, Unfelt it whirls thee onward 

Together with his ring and all his moons. 

With little guilt stepp'st thou into this contest ; 

Thee will the world not censure, it will praise thee. 

For that thou held'st thy friend more worth to thee 

Than names and influences more removed. 

For justice is the virtue of the ruler, 

Affection and fidelity the subject's. 

Not every one doth it beseem to question 

The far-off high Arcturus. Most securely 

Wilt thou pursue the nearest duty — let 

The pilot fix his eye upon the pole-star. 



SCENE VII. 
To these enter Newmann. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What now ? 

NEWMANN. 

The Pappenheimers are dismounted, 
And are advancing now on foot, determined 
With sword in hand to storm the house, and free 
The Count, their colonel. 

WALLENSTEIN {tO TeRTSKY). 

Have the cannon planted. 
I will receive them with chain-shot. 

[Exit Teetsky. 
Prescribe to me with sword in hand! Go, Neumann! 
'T is my command that they retreat this moment. 
And in their ranks in silence wait my pleasure. 

[Neumann exit. Illo steps to the window. 

COUNTESS. 

Let him go, I entreat thee, let him go. 

ILLO {at the window). 
Hell and perdition! 

WALLftjSTEIN. 

What is it? 

ILLO. 

They scale the council-house, the roof's uncover'd : 
They level at this house the cannon 

MAX. 

Madmen t 

ILLO. 

They are making preparations now to fire on us. 

DUCHESS AND COUNTESS. 

Merciful Heaven ! 

MAX (fO WALLENSTEIN). 

Let me go to them ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not a step ! 
MAX. (pointing to Thekla and the Duchess). 
But their life ! Thine ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What tidings bring'st thou, Tertsky? 



SCENE vm. 

To these Tertsky (returning). 

TERTSKY. 

Message and greeting from our faithful regiments 
Their ardor may no longer be curb'd in. 

191 



182 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They entreat permission to commence the attack, 
And if thou wouldst but give the word of onset, 
They could now charge the enemy in rear, 
Into the city wedge them, and with ease 
O'erpower them in the narrow streets. 

ILLO. 

O come ! 
Let not their ardor cool. The soldiery 
Of Butler's corps stand by us faithfully ; 
We are the greater number. Let us charge them, 
And finish here in Pilsen the revolt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What ? shall this town become a field of slaughter, 

And brother-killing Discord, fire-eyed, 

Be let loose through its streets to roam and rage ? 

Shall the decision be deliver'd over 

To deaf remorseless Rage, that hears no leader ? 

Here is not room for battle, only for butchery. 

Well, let it be ! I have long thought of it, 

So let it burst then ! 

[Turns to Max. 
Well, how is it with thee ? 
Wilt thou attempt a heat with me. Away ! 
Thou art free to go. Oppose thyself to me, 
Front against front, and lead them to the battle ; 
Thou'rt skilled in war, thou hast learn'd somewhat 

under me, 
I need not be ashamed of my opponent, 
And never hadst thou fairer opportunity 
To pay me for thy schooling. 

COUNTESS. 

Is it then. 
Can it have come to this ? — What! Cousin, cousin ! 
Have you the heart ? 

MAX. 

The regiments that are trusted to my care 

I have pledged my troth to bring away from Pilsen 

True to the Emperor, and this promise will I 

Make good, or perish. More than this no duty 

Requires of me. I will not fight against thee, 

Unless compell'd ; for though an enemy, 

Thy head is holy to me still. 

[Two reports of cannon. Illo and Tertsky hurry 
to the window. 



WALLENSTEIN. 



What's that? 



TERTSKY. 

He falls. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Falls! who? 

ILLO. 

Tiefenbach's corps 
Discharged the ordnance. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Upon whom? 

ILLO. 

On Neumann, 
Your messenger. 

WALLENSTEIN {starting up). 

Ha! Death and Hell! I will— 

TERTSKY. 

Expose thjreelf to their blind frenzy ? 
DUCHESS and countess. 



ILLO. 

Not yet, my General ! 
countess. 
O, hold him ! hold him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave me 

MAX. 

Do it not ; 
Nor yet ! This rash and bloody deed has thrown them 
Into a frenzy-fit — allow them time 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Away ! too long already have I loiter'd. 
They are embolden'd to these outrages, 
Beholding not my face. They shall behold 

My countenance, shall hear my voice 

Are they not my troops ? Am I not their General, 
And their long-fear'd commander! Let me see. 
Whether indeed they do no longer know 
That countenance, which was their sun in battle ! 
From the balcony (mark I) I show myself 
To these rebellious forces, and at once 
Revolt is mounded, and the high-swoln current 
Shrinks back into the old bed of obedience. 
[Exit WALLENSTEIN : Illo, Tertsky, and Butler 
follow. 



SCENE IX. 



No! 



For God's sake, no ! 



Countess, Duchess, Max. and Thekla. 

countess (to the Duchess). 
Let them but see him — there is hope still, sister. 

duchess. 
Hope ! I have none ! 

MAX. (who during the last scene has been standing at a 
distance in a visible struggle of feelings, advances). 
This can I not endure. 
With most determined soul did I come hither. 
My purposed action seem'd unblamable 
To my own conscience — and I must stand here 
Like one abhorr'd, a hard inhuman being ; 
Yea, loaded with the curse of all I love ! 
Must see all whom I love in this sore anguish, 
Whom I with one word can make happy — O ! 
My heart revolts within me, and two voices 
Make themselves audible within my bosom. 
My soul 's benighted ; I no longer can 
Distinguish the right track. O, well and truly 
Didst thou say, father, I relied too much 
On my own heart. My mind moves to and fro — 
I know not what to do. 

countess. 

What ! you Imow not ? 
Does not your own heart tell you ? O ! then I 
Will tell it you. Your father is a traitor, 
A frightful traitor to us — he has plotted 
Against our General's life, has plunged us all 
In misery — and you 're his son ! 'T is your's 
To make the amends — Make you the son's fidelity 
Outweigh the father's treason, that the name 
Of Piccolomini be not a proverb 
Of infamy, a common form of cursing 
To the posterity of Wallenstein. 

MAX. 

Where is that voice of truth which I dare follow ? 
It speaks no longer in my heart. We all 
But utter what our passionate wishes dictate r 

192 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



183 



O that an angel would descend from Heaven, 
And scoop for me the right, the uncorrupted. 
With a pure hand from the pure Fount of Light, 

[His eyes glance on Thekla. 
What other angel seek I ? To this heart, 
To this unerring heart, will 1 submit it ; 
Will ask thy love, which has the power to bless 
The happy man alone, averted evfer 
From the disquieted and guilty — canst thou 
Still love me, if I stay ? Say that thou canst, 
And I am the Duke's 

COUNTESS. 

Think, niece 



Speak what thou feelest. 



Think nothing, Thekla ! 



COUNTESS. 

Think upon your father. 

MAX. 

I did not question thee, as Friedland's daughter. 

Thee, the beloved and the unerring god 

Within thy heart, I question. What 's at stake ? 

Not whether diadem of royalty 

Be to be won or not — that might's t thou think on. 

Thy friend, and his soul's quiet, are at stake ; 

The fortune of a thousand gallant men, 

Who will all follow me ; shall I forswear 

My oath and duty to the Emperor ? 

Say, shall I send into Octavio's camp 

The parricidal ball ? For when the ball 

Has left its cannon, and is on its flight, 

It is no longer a dead instrument! 

It lives, a spirit passes into it, 

The avenging furies seize possession of it. 

And with, sure malice guide it the worst way. 

THEKLA. 

O! Max. 

MAX. {interrupting her). 

Nay, not precipitately either, Thekla. 
I understand thee. To thy noble heart 
The hardest duty might appear the highest. 
The human, not the great part, would I act. 
Even from my childhood to this present hour, 
Think what the Duke has done for me, how loved me, 
And think too, how my father has repaid him. 
O likewise the free lovely impulses 
Of. hospitality, the pious friend's 
Faithful attachment, these too are a holy 
Religion to the heart ; and heavily 
The shudderings of nature do avenge 
Themselves on the barbarian that insults them. 
Lay all upon the balance, all — then speak, 
And let thy heart decide it. 

THEKLA. 

O, thy own 
Hath long ago decided. Follow thou 
Thy heart's first feeling 

COUNTESS. 

Oh! ill-fated 



THEKLA. 

Is it possible, that that can be the right. 
The which thy tender heart did not at first 
Detect and seize with instant impulse ? Go, 
Fulfil thy duty ! I should ever love thee. 
Whate'er thou hadst chosen, thou wouldst still have 
acted 

Z 



Nobly and worthy of thee — but repentance 
Shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace. 



TlienI 
Must leave thee, must part from thee ! 

THEKLA. 

Being faithful 

To thine own self, thou art faithful too to me : 

If our fates part, our hearts remain united. 

A bloody hatred will divide for ever 

The houses Piccolomini and Friedland ; 

But we belong not to our houses — Go ! 

Quick ! quick ! and separate thy righteous cause 

From our unholy and unblessed one ! 

The curse of Heaven lies upon our head: 

'Tis dedicate to ruin. Even me 

My father's guilt drags with it to perdition. 

Mourn not for me : 

My destiny will quickly be decided. 

[Max. clasps her in his arms in extreme emotion. 
There is heard from behind the Scene a loud, 
vnld, long-continued cry, Vivat Ferdinan- 
DUS, accompanied by warlike Instruments. 
Max and Thekla remain vxithout motion 
in each other's embraces. 



SCENE X. 

To these enter Tertsky. 

COUNTESS (meeting him). 

What meant that cry ? What was it ! 

tertsky. 

All is lost! 

COUNTESS. 

What ! they regarded not his countenance ? 

TERTSKY. 

'Twas all in vain. 

DUCHESS. 

They shouted Vivat ! 

TERTSKY. 

To the Emperor 

COUNTESS. 

The traitors! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay ! he was not once permitted 
Even to address them. Soon as he began, 
With deafening noise of warlike instruments 
They drown'd his words. But here he comes. 



SCENE XI. 



To these enter Wallenstein, accompanied by Illo 
and Butler. 

wallenstein {as he enters). 

Tertsky ! 

TERTSKY. 

My General ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Let our regiments hold themselves 
In readiness to march ; for we shall leave 
Pilsen ere evening. [Exit Tertsky. 



Butler ! 



Yes, my General. 
193 



184 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

The Governor at Egra is your friend 
And countryman. Write to him instantly 
By a post-courier. He must be advised, 
That we are vv^ith him early on the morrow. 
You follow us yourself, your regiment with you. 

BUTLER. 

It shall be done, my General ! 

Wallenstein (steps letween Max. and Thekla, who 

have remained during this time in each other's 

arms). 

Part! 

MAX. 

OGod! 
[Cuirassiers enter with drawn swords, and assemble in 
the back-ground. At the same time there are heard 
from below some spirited passages out of the Pap- 
penheim March, which seem to address Max. 
WALLENSTEIN {to the Cuirassiers). 
Here he is, he is at liberty : I keep him 
No longer. 

[He turns away, and stands so that Max. cannot 
pass by him nor approach the Princess. 

MAX. 

Thou know'st that I have not yet learnt to live 
Without thee ! I go forth into a desert, 
Leaving my all behind me. O do not turn 
Thine eyes away from me ! O once more show me 
Thy ever dear and honor'd countenance. 

[Max. attempts to take his hand, but is repelled; 

he turns to the Countess. 
Is there no eye that has a look of pity for me ? 

[The Countess turns away from him; he turns 

to the Duchess. 
My mother' 

duchess. 
Go where duty calls you. Haply 
The time may come, when you may prove to us 
A true friend, a good angel at the throne 
Of the Emperor. 

max. 
You give me hope ; you would not 
Suffer me wholly to despair. No ! no ! 
Mine is a certain misery — ^Thanks to Heaven 
That offers me a means of ending it. 

[The military music begins again. The stage fills 
more and more with armed men. Max. sees 
Butler, and addresses him. 
And you here, Colonel Butler — and will you 
Not follow me ? Well, then ! remain more faithful 
To your new lord, than you have proved yourself 
To the Emperor. Come, Butler ! promise me, 
Give me your hand upon it, that you '11 be 
The guardian of his life, its shield, its watchman. 
He is attainted, and his princely head 
Fair booty for each slave that trades in murder. 
Now he doth need the faithful eye of friendship, 
And those whom here I see — 

[Casting suspicious looks on Illo and Butler. 

ILLO. 

Go — seek for traitors 
In Galas', in your father's quarters. Here 
Is only one. Away ! away ! and free us 
From his detested Sight ! Away ! 

[Max. attempts once more to approach Thekla. 
wallenstein prevents him. Max. stands 



irresolute, and in apparent anguish. In the 
mean time the stage fills more and mtrre ; and 
the horns sound from below louder and 
louder, and each time after a shorter inter- 
val. 

MAX. 

Blow, blow ! O were it but the Swedish trumpets, 
And all the naked swords, which I see here, 
Were plunged into my breast ! What purpose you ? 
You come to tear me from this place ! Beware, 
Ye drive me not to desperation. — Do it not ! 
Ye may repent it ! 

[The stage is entirely filled with armed men. 
Yet more ! weight upon weight to drag me down ! 
Think what ye're doing. It is not well done 
To choose a man despairing for your leader ; 
You tear me from my happiness. Well, then, 
I dedicate your souls to vengeance. Mark ! 
For your own ruin you have chosen me : 
Who goes with me, must be prepared to perish. 

[He turns to the back-ground, there ensues a sud- 
den and violent movement among the Cuiras- 
siers ; they surround him, and carry him off 
in wild tumult. Wallenstein remains im- 
movable. Thekla sinks into her mother's 
arms. The curtain falls. The music be- 
comes loud and overpowering, and passes 
into a complete war-march — the orchestra 
joins it — and continues during the interval 
between the second and third Acts. 



ACT III. 
SCENE I. 
Scene — The Burgomaster's House at Egra. 
butler {just arrived). 
Here then he is, by his destiny conducted. 
Here, Friedland ! and no farther ! From Bohemia 
Thy meteor rose, traversed the sky awhile, 
And here upon the borders of Bohemia 
Must sink. 

Thou hast forsworn the ancient colors. 
Blind man ! yet trustest to thy ancient fortunes. 
Profaner of the altar and the hearth, 
Against thy Emperor and fellow-citizens 
Thou mean'st to wage the war. Friedland, beware-^ 
The evil spirit of revenge impels thee — 
Beware thou, that revenge destroy thee not ! 



SCENE II. 
Butler and Gordon. 



Is it you ? 
How my heart sinks ! The Duke a fugitive traitor ! 
His princely head attainted ! O my God ! 

BUTLER. 

You have received the letter which I sent you 
By a post-courier ? 

GORDON. 

Yes : and in obedience to it 
Open'd the strong-hold to him without scruple. 
For an imperial letter orders me 
To follow your commands implicitly. 
But yet forgive me ; when even now I saw 
194 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



185 



The Duke himself, my scruples recommenced. 
For truly, not like an attainted man. 
Into this town did Friedland make his entrance ; 
His wonted majesty beam'd from his brow, 
And calm, as in the days when all was right, 
Did he receive from me the accounts of office. 
'Tis said, that fallen pride learns condescension: 
But sparing and with dignity the Duke 
Weigh'd every syllable of approbation, 
As masters praise a servant who has done 
His duty, and no more. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis all precisely 
As I related in my letter. Friedland 
Has sold the army to the enemy. 
And pledged himself to give up Prague and Egra. 
On this report the regiments all forsook him, 
The five excepted that belong to Tertsky, 
And which have follow'd him, as thou hast seen. 
The sentence of attainder is pass'd on him. 
And every loyal subject is required 
To give him in to justice, dead or living. 

GORDON. 

A traitor to the Emperor — Such a noble ! 

Of such high talents ! What is human greatness ? 

I often said, this can't end happily. 

His might, his greatness, and this obscure power. 

Are but a cover'd pit-fall. The human being 

May not be trusted to self-government. 

The clear and written law, the deep-trod foot-marks 

Of ancient custom, are all necessary 

To keep him in the road of faith and duty. 

The authority intrusted to this man 

Was luiexampled and unnatural. 

It placed him on a level with his Emperor, 

Till the proud soul unlearn'd submission. Woe is me ; 

I mourn for him ! for where he fell, I deem 

Might none stand firm. Alas ! dear General, 

We in our lucky mediocrity 

Have ne'er experienced, cannot calculate. 

What dangerous wishes such a height may breed 

In the heart of such a man. 

BUTLER. 

Spare your laments 
Till he need sympathy ; for at this ptesent 
He is still mighty, and still formidable. 
The Swedes advance to Egra by forced marches, 
And quickly will the junction be accomplish'd. 
This must not be ! The Duke must never leave 
This strong-hold on free footing ; for I have 
Pledged life and honor here to hold him prisoner, 
And your assistance 'tis on which I calculate. 

GORDON. 

O that I had not lived to see this day ! 
From his hand I received this dignity, 
He did himself intrust this strong-hold to me. 
Which I am now required to make his dungeon. 
We subalterns have no will of our own : 
The free, the mighty man alone may listen 
To the fair impulse of his human nature. 
Ah ! we are but the poor tools of the law. 
Obedience the sole virtue we dare aim at ! 

BUTLER. 

Nay ! let it not afflict you, that your power 
Is circumscribed. Much liberty, much error ! 
The narrow path of duty is securest. 



GORDON. 

And all then have deserted him, you say ? 
He has built up the luck of many thousands ; 
For kingly was his spirit : his full hand 
Was ever open ! Many a one from dust 

[ With a sly glance on Butler. 
Hath he selected, from the very dust 
Hath raised him into dignity and honor. 
And yet no friend, not one friend hath he purchased 
Whose heart beats true to him in the evil hour. 



Here 's one, I see. 

GORDON. 

I have enjoy'd from him 
No grace or favor. I could almost doubt. 
If ever in his greatness he once thought on 
An old friend of his youth. For still my office 
Kept me at distance from him ; and when first 
He to this citadel appointed me, 
He was sincere and serious in his duty. 
I do not then abuse his confidence, 
If I preserve my fealty in that 
Which to my fealty was first deliver'd 

butler. 
Say, then, will you fulfil the attainder on him ? 

GORDON {pauses reflecting — then as in deep dejection) 
If it be so — if all be as you say — 
If he 've betray'd the Emperor, his master. 
Have sold the troops, have purposed to deliver 
The strong-holds of the country to the enemy — 
Yea, truly ! — there is no redemption for him ! 
Yet it is hard, that me the lot shpuld destine 
To be the instrument of his perdition ; 
For we were pages at the court of Bergau 
At the same period ; but I was the senior. 

BUTLER. 

I have heard so 

GORDON. 

'Tis full thirty years since then. 
A youth who scarce had seen his twentieth year 
Was Wallenstein, when he and I were friends : 
Yet even then he had a daring soul : 
His frame of mind was serious and severe 
Beyond his years : his dreams were of great objects. 
He walk'd amidst us of a silent spirit. 
Communing with himself; yet I have known him 
Transported on a sudden into utterance 
Of strange conceptions ; kindling into splendor i 
His soul reveal'd itself, and he spake so 
That we look'd rotmd perplex'd upon each other. 
Not knowing whether it were craziness. 
Or whether it were a god that spoke in him. 

BUTLER. 

But was it where he fell two story high 

From a window-ledge, on which he had fallen asleep 

And rose up free from injury? From this day 

(It is reported) he betray'd clear marks 

Of a distemper'd fancy. 

GORDON. 

He became 
Doubtless more self-enwrapt and melancholy ; 
He made himself a Catholic. Marvellously 
His marvellous preservation bad transform'd him." 
Thenceforth he held himself for an exempted 
And privileged being, and, as if he were 
Incapable of dizziness or fall, 

195 



186 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He ran alone the unsteady rope of life. 

But now our destinies drove us asunder ; 

He paced with rapid step the way of greatness, 

Was Count, and Prince, Duke-regent, and Dictator. 

And now is all, all this too little for him ; 

He stretches forth his hands for a king's crown, 

And plunges in unfathomable rtiin. 

BUTLER. 

No more, he comes. 



SCENE III. 



To these enter Wallenstein, in conversation with the 
Burgomaster of Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You were at one time a free town. I see, 
Ye bear the half eagle in your city arms. 
Why the half eagle only ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

We were free, 
But for these last two hundred years has Egra 
Remain'd in pledge to the Bohemian crown ; 
Therefore we bear the half eagle, the other half 
Being cancell'd till the empire ransom us, 
If ever that should be. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye merit freedom. 
Only be firm and dauntless. Lend your ears 
To no designing whispering court-minions. 
What may your imposts be ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

So heavy that 
We totter imder them. The garrison 
Lives at our costs. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I will relieve you. Tell me. 

There are some Protestants among you still ? 

[The Burgomaster hesitates. 
Yes, yes ; I know it. Many lie conceal'd 
Withm these walls — Confess now — ^you yourself'— 

[Fittes his eye on him. The Burgomaster alarmed. 
Be not alarm'd. I hate the Jesuits. 
Could my will have determined it, they had 
Been long ago expell'd the empire. Trust me — 
Mass-book or Bible — 'tis all one to me. 
Of that the world has had sufficient proof. 
I built a ehurch for the reform'd in Glogau 
At my own instance. Harkye, Burgomaster ! 
What is your name ? 

burgomaster. 
Peichhalbel, may it please you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Harkye ! 

But let it go no further, what I now 
Disclose to you in confidence. 

{Laying his hand on the Burgomaster's shoulder 
with a certain solemnity. 

The times 
Draw near to their fulfilment, Burgomaster ! 
The high will fall, the low will be exalted. 
Harkye ! But keep it to yourself! The end 
Approaches of the Spanish double monarchy — 
A new arrangement is at hand. You saw 
The three moons that appear'd at once in the Heaven. 



burgomaster. 
With wonder and affright ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Whereof did two 
Strangely transform themselves to bloody daggers. 
And only one, the middle moon, remain'd 
Steady and clear. 

burgomaster. 
We applied it to the Turks. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The Turks ! That all ? — I tell you, that two empires 
Will set in blood, in the East and in the West, 
And Luth'ranism alone remain. 

[Observing Gordon and Butler. 
r faith, 
'Twas a smart cannonading that we heard 
This evening, as we journey'd hitherward ; 
'Twas on our left hand. Did you hear it here ? 

GORDON. 

Distinctly. The wind brought it from the South. 

BUTLER. 

It seem'd to come from Weiden or from Neustadt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'T is likely. That 's the route the Swedes are taking. 
How strong is the garrison ? 

GORDON. 

Not quite two hundred 
Competent men, the rest are invalids. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Good ! And how many in the vale of Jochim. 

GORDON. 

Two hundred arquebusiers have I sent thither, 
To fortify the posts against the Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Good ! I commend your foresight. At the works too 
You have done somewhat ? 

GORDON. 

Two additional batteries 
I caused to be run up. They were needed. 
The Rhinegrave presses hard upon us. General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You have been watchful in your Emperor's service. 
I am content with you, Lieutenant-Colonel. 

[To Butler. 
Release the outposts in the vale of Jochim 
With all the stations in the enemy's route. 

[To GORDON- 

Governor, in your faithful hands I leave 
My wife, my daughter, and my sister. I 
Shall make no stay here, and wait but the arrival 
Of letters to take leave of you, together 
With all the regiments. 



SCENE IV. 



To iJiese enter Count Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Joy, General ; joy ! I bring you welcome tidings. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And what may they be ? 

TERTSKY. 

There has been an engagement 
At Neustadt ; the Swedes gain'd the victory. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From whence did you receive the intelligence ? 

196 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



187 



TERTSKY. 

A countryman from Tirschenseil convey'd it. 
Soon after sunrise did the fight begin ! 
A troop of the Imperialists from Fachau 
Had forced their way into the Swedish camp ; 
The cannonade continued full two hours ; 
There were left dead upon the field a thousand 
Imperialists, together with their Colonel j 
Further than this he did not know. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How came 
Imperial troops at Neustadt ? Altringer, 
But yesterday, stood sixty miles from there. 
Count Galas' force collects at Frauenberg, 
And have not the full complement. Is it possible, 
That Suys perchance had ventured so far onward ? 
It cannot be. 

TERTSKY. 

We shall soon know the whole, 
For here comes lUo, full of haste, and joyous. 



SCENE V. 
To these enter IllO. 

ILLO {to WALLENSTEIN). 

A courier, Duke ! he wishes to speak with thee. 

TERTSKY {eagerly). 
Does he bring confirmation of the victory ? 
WALLENSTEIN {at the same time). 
What does he bring ? Whence comes he ? 

ILLO. 

From the Rhinegrave. 
And what he brings I can announce to you 
Beforehand. Seven leagues distant are the Swedes ; 
At Neustadt did Max. Piccolomini 
Throw himself on them with the cavalry ; 
A murderous fight took place ! o'erpower'd by numbers 
The Pappenheiraers all, with Max. their leader, 

[WALLENSTEIN sTiudders and turns pale. 
Were left dead on the field. 

WALLENSTEIN {after a pause, in a low voice). 
Where is the messenger ? Conduct me to him. 

[WALLENSTEIN is goiug, when Lady Neubrunn 
rushes into the room. Some Servants follow 
her, and run across the stage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Help! Help! 

ILLO and TERTSKY {at the same time). 
What now ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

The Princess! 

WALLENSTEIN and TERTSKY. 

Does she know it ? 
NEUBRUNN {at the same time with them). 
She is dying! [Hurries off the stage, when Wallen- 
STEiN and Tertsky follow her. 



SCENE VI. 
Butler and Gordon. 

GORDON. 



What's this ? 



BUTLER. 

She has lost the man she loved — 
Young Piccolomini, who fell in the battle. 



GORDON. 

Unfortunate Lady ! 

BUTLER. 

You have heard what lUo 
Reporteth, that the Swedes are conquerors, 
And marching hitherward. 

GORDON. 

Too well I heard it. 

BUTLER. 

They are twelve regiments strong, and there are five 
Close by us to protect the Duke. We have 
Only my single regiment ; and the garrison 
Is not two hundred strong. 

GORDON. 

'Tis even so. 

BUTLER. 

It is not possible with such small force 
To hold in custody a man like him. 

GORDON. 

I grant it. 

BUTLER. 

Soon the numbers would disarm us, 
And liberate him. 

GORDON. 

It were to be fear'd. 
BUTLER {after a pause). 
Know, I am warranty for the event ; 
With my head have I pledged myself for his. 
Must make my word good, cost it what it will. 
And if alive we cannot hold him prisoner, 
Why — death makes all things certain ! 

GORDON. 

Butler! What? 
Do I understand you ? Gracious God ! You could — 

BUTLER. 

He must not live. 

GORDON. 

And you can do the deed ! 

BUTLER. 

Either you or I. This morning was his last 

GORDON. 

You would assassinate him. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis my purpose 

GORDON. 

Who leans with his whole confidence upon you ! 

BUTLER. 

Such is his evil destiny ! 

GORDON. 

Your General ! 
The sacred person of your General ! 

BUTLER. 

My General he Ms been. 

GORDON, 

That 'tis only 
An " has heen" washes out no villany. 
And without judgment pass'd ? 

BUTLER. 

The execution 
Is here instead of judgment. 

GORDON. 

This were murder, 
Not justice. The most guilty should be heard. 

BUTLER. 

His guilt is clear, the Emperor has pass'd judgment, 
And we but execute his will. 

197 



188 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



GORDON. 

We should not 
Hurry to realize a bloody sentence. 
A word may be recall'd, a life can never be. 

BUTLER. 

Dispatch in service pleases sovereigns. 

GORDON. 

No honest man's ambitious to press forward 
To the hangman's service. 

BUTLER. 

And no brave man loses 
His color at a daring enterprise. 

GORDON. 

A brave man hazards life, but not his conscience. 

BUTLER. 

What then ? Shall he go forth, anew to kindle 
The imextinguishable flame of war ? 

GORDON. 

Seize him, and hold him prisoner — do not kill him ! 

BUTLER. 

Had not the Emperor's army been defeated, 
I might have done so — But 'tis now past by. 

GORDON. 

O, wherefore open'd I the strong-hold to him ? 

BUTLER. 

His destiny and not the place destroys him. 

GORDON. 

Upon these ramparts, as beseem'd a soldier, 
I had fallen, defending the Emperor's citadel ! 

BUTLER. 

Yes ! and a thousand gallant men have perish'd ! 

GORDON. 

Doing their duty — that adorns the man ! 

But murder's a black deed, and nature curses it. 

BUTLER (brings out a paper). 
Here is the manifesto which commands us 
To gain possession of his person. See — 
It is address'd to you as well as me. 
Are you content to take the consequences. 
If through our fault he escape to the enemy ? 

GORDON. 

I ? GraciouB God ! 

BUTLER. 

Take it on yourself. 
Come of it ^hat it may, on you I lay it. 

GORDON. 

God in heaven ! 

BUTLER. 

Can you advise aught else 
Wherewith to execute the Emperor's purpose ? 
Say if you can. For I desire his fell. 
Not his destruction. 

GORDON. 

Merciful heaven ! what must be 

1 see as clear as you. Yet still the heart 
Within my bosom beats with other feelings! 

BUTLER. 

Mme is of harder stuff! Necessity 

In her rough school hath steel'd me. And this Illo 

And Tertsky likewise, they must not survive him. 

GORDON. 

I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts 
Impell'd them, not the influence of the stars, 
Twas they who strew'd the seeds of evil passions 
In his calm breast, and with oflficious villany 



Water'd and nurs'd the pois'nous plants. May they 
Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite ! 

BUTLER. 

And their death shall precede his ! 

We meant to have taken them alive this evening 

Amid the merry-making of a feast. 

And keep them prisoners in the citadels 

But this makes shorter work. I go this instant 

To give the necessary orders. 



SCENE VII. 



To these enter Illo and Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Our luck is on the turn. To-morrow come 
The Swedes — twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo! 
Then straightways for Vienna. Cheerily, friend ! 
What ! meet such news with such a moody face ? 

illo. 
It lies with us at present to prescribe 
Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors, 
Those skulking cowards that deserted us ; 
One has already done his bitter penance. 
The Piccolomini : be his the fate 
Of all who wish us evil ! This flies sure 
To the old man's heart ; he has his whole life long 
Fretted and toil'd to raise his ancient house 
From a Count's title to the name of Prince ; 
And now must seek a grave for his only son. 

BUTLER. 

'Twas pity, though ! A youth of such heroic 
And gentle temperament ! The Duke himself, 
'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart 

ILLO. 

Hark ye, old friend ! That is the very point 
That never pleased me in our General — 
He ever gave the preference to the Italians. 
Yea, at this very moment, by my soul ! 
He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over, 
Could he thereby recall his friend to life. 

TERTSKY. 

Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! ITiis evening's 



Is, who can fairly drink the other down — 
Your regiment, Illo ! gives the entertainment, 
Come ! we will keep a merry carnival — 
The night for once be day, and 'mid full glasses 
Will we expect the Swedish avant-garde. 

ILLO. 

Yes, let us be of good cheer for to-day. 
For there 's hot work before us, friends ! This sword 
Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt 
In Austrian blood. 

GORDON. 

Shame, shame ! what talk is this. 
My Lord Field Marshal ? Wherefore foam you so 
Against your Emperor ? 

BUTLER. 

Hope not too much 
From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs ! 
How rapidly the wheel of Fortune turns ; 
The Emperor still is formidably strong. 

ILLO. 

The Emperor has soldiers, no commander, 
For this King Ferdinand of Hungary 
Is but a tyro. Galas ? He 's no luck, 

* 198 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



189 



And was of old the ruiner of armies. 

And then this viper, this Octavio, 

Is excellent at stabbing in the back, 

But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field. 

TERTSKY. 

Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed ; 
Fortune, we know, can ne'er forsake the Duke! 
And only under Wallenstein can Austria 
Be conqueror. 

ILLO. 

The Duke will soon assemble 
A mighty army : all comes crowding, streaming 
To banners, dedicate by destiny. 
To fame, and prosperous fortune. I behold 
Old times come back again ! he will become 
Once more the mighty Lord which he has been. 
How will the fools, who ' ve now deserted him, 
Look then ? I can't but laugh to think of them, 
For lands will he present to all his friends, 
And like a King and Emperor reward 
True services ; but we 've the nearest claims. 

[To Gordon. 
You will not be forgotten. Governor ! 
He '11 take you from this nest, and bid you shine 
In higher station ; your fidelity 
Well merits it. 

GORDON. 

I am content already. 
And wish to climb no higher ; where great height is. 
The fall must needs be great. " Great height, great 
depth." 

ILLO. 

Here you have no more business, for to-morrow 
The Swedes will take possession of the citadel. 
Come, Tertsky, it is supper-time. What think you ? 
Nay, shall we have the State illuminated 
In honor of the Swede ? And who refuses 
To do it is a Spaniard and a traitor. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay! Nay! not that, it will not please the Duke — 

ILLO. 

What! we are masters here ; no soul shall dare 
Avow himself imperial where we 've the rule. 
Gordon ! good ni^t, and for the last time, take 
A fair leave of the place. Send out patrols 
To make secure, the watch-word may be alter'd 
At the stroke of ten; deliver in the keys 
To the Duke himself, and then you've quit for ever 
Your wardship of the gates, for on to-morrow 
The Swedes vdll take possession of the citadel. 

TERTSKY {as he is going, to Butler). 
You come, though, to the castle ? 

BUTLER. 

At the right time. 
[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo. 



SCENE VIII. 
Gordon and Butler. 



BUTLER. 

Do as he order'd you. Send round patrols. 
Take measures for the citadel's security ; 
When they are within, I close the castle-gate 
That nothing may transpire. 

GORDON {with earnest anxiety). 

Oh ! haste not so ! 
Nay, stop; first tell me 

BUTLER. 

You have heard already 
To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night 
Alone is ours. They make good expedition. 
But we will make still greater. Fare you well. 

GORDON. 

Ah ! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler, 
I pray you, promise me ! 

BUTLER. 

The sun has set ; 
A fateful evening doth descend upon us. 
And brings on their long night ! 'Their evil stars 
Deliver them unarm'd into our hands, 
And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes 
The dagger at their heart shall rouse them. Well, 
The Duke was ever a great calculatoi , 
His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board, 
To move and station, as his game required. 
Other men's honor, dignity, good name. 
Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of it 
Still calculating, calculating still ; 
And yet at last his calculation proves 
Erroneous ; the whole game is lost ; and lo ! 
His ovm life will be found among the forfeits. 

GORDON. 

think not of his errors now ; remember 
His greatness, his munificence, think on all 
The lovely features of his character, 
On all the noble exploits of his life. 
And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen 
Arrest the lifted sword. 

BUTLER. 

It is too late. 

1 sufier not myself to feel compassion, 
Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now : 

[Gracing Gordon's hand. 
Gordon! 'tis not my hatred (I pretend not 
To love the Duke, and have no cause to love him). 
Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me 
To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate. 
Hostile concurrences of many events 
Control and subjugate me to the office. 
In vain the human being meditates 
Free action. He is but the wire-work'd* puppet 
Of the blind Power, which out of his own choice 
Creates for him a dread necessity. 
What too would it avail him, if there were 
A something pleading for him in my heart — 
Still I must kill him. 



Gordon (looking after them). 
Unhappy men ! How free from all foreboding ! 
They rush into the outspread net of murder, 
In the blind drunkenness of victory ; 
I have no pity for their fate. This Illo, 
This overflowing and foolhardy villain. 
That would fain bathe himself in his Emperor's 
blood. — 



GORDON. 

If your heart speak to you 
Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God. 
Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous 
Bedew'd with blood — his blood ? Believe it not I 



* We doubt the propriety of putting so UiaBphomouB a senti- 
ment in the mouth of any character. T. 

199 



190 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



BUTLER. 

You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen. 
That the Swedes gain'd the victory, and hasten 
With such forced marches hitherward ? Fain would I 
Have given him to the Emperor's mercy. — Gordon ! 
I do not wish his blood — But I must ransom 
The honor of my word, — it lies in pledge — 

And he must die, or 

[Passionately grasping Gordon's hand. 
Listen tlien, and know ! 
I am dishonored if the Duke escape us. 

GORDON. 

O ! to save such a man 

BUTLER. 

What! 

GORDON. 

It is worth 
A sacrifice. — Come, friend ! Be noble-minded ! 
Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, 
Forms our true honor. 

BUTLER {with a cold and haughty air). 
He is a great Lord, 
This Duke — and I am but of mean importance. 
This is what you would say ? Wherein concerns it 
The world at large, you mean to hint to me, 
Whether the man of low extraction keeps 
Or blemishes his honor — 
So that the man of princely rank be saved ? 
^''^e all do stamp our value on ourselve^r***'****^ 
) The price we challenge for ourselves is given us. .. 
\ There does not live on earth the man so station'd, > 
if That I despise myself compared with him. 
I Man is made great or little by his own will ; 
^Because I am true to mine, therefore he dies. 

GORDON. 

I am endeavoring to move a rock. 

Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings. 

I carmot hinder you, but may some God 

Rescue him from you ! [Exit Gordon. 



11 u, ' 

J 



SCENE IX. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE L 

Scene — Butler's Chamber. 

Butler, Major, and Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

Find me twelve strong Dragoons, ann them with 

pikes, 
For there must be no firing — 
Conceal them somewhere near the banquet-room, 
And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all in 
And cry — Who is loyal to the Emperor ? 
I will overturn the table — while you attack 
Illo and Tertsky, and dispatch them both. 
The castle-palace is well barr'd and guarded, 
That no intelligence of this proceeding 
May make its way to the Duke. — Go instantly ; 
Have you yet sent for Captain Devereux 
And the Macdonald ? 

GERALDIN. 

They'll be here anon. 

[Exit Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

Here 's no room for delay- The citizens 
Declare for him, a dizzy drunken spirit 
Possesses the whole town. They see in the Duke 
A Prince of peace, a founder of new ages 
And golden times. Arms too have been given out 
By the town-council, and a hundred citizens 
Have volunteer'd themselves to stand on guard. 
Dispatch then be the word. For enemies 
Threaten us from without and from within. 



BUTLER {alone). 
I treasured my good name all my life long; 
The Duke has cheated me of life's best jewel, 
So that I blush before this poor weak Gordon ' 
He prizes above all his fealty ; 
His conscious soul accuses him of nothing ,- 
In opposition to his own soft heart 
He subjugates himself to an iron duty. 
Me in a weaker moment passion warp'd ; 
I stand beside him, and must feel myself 
The worse man of the two. What, though the world 
Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet 
One man does know it, and can prove it too — 
High-minded Piccolomini ! 
There lives the man who can dishonor me ! 
This ignominy blood alone can cleanse ! 
Duke Friedland, thou or I — Into my ovvn hands 
Fortune delivers me — ^The dearest thing a man has 
is himself. 

(TAe curtain drops.) 



SCENE IL 
Butler, Captain Devereux, and Macdonald. 

MACDONALD. 

Here we are. General. 

devereux. 
What's to be the watch-word I 

BUTLER. 

Long live the Emperor ! 

BOTH {recoiling)^ 
How? 

BUTLER. 

Live the House of Austria! 

DEVEREUX. 

Have we not sworn fideUty to Friedland? 

MACDONALD. 

Have we not march'd to this place to protect him? 

BUTLER. 

Protect a traitor, and his country's enemy ! 

DEVEREUX. 

Why, yes ! in his name you administer'd 
Our oath. 

MACDONALD. 

And followed him yourself to Egra. 

BUTLER. 

I did it the more surely to destroy him. 

DEVEREUX. 

So then ! 

MACDONALD. 

An alter'd case ! 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



191 



BUTLER {to DeVEREUX). 

Thou wretched man ! 
So easily leavest thou thy oath and colors ? 

DEVEREUX. 

The devil ! — I but follow'd your example. 
If you could prove a villain, why not we ? 

MACDONALD. 

We've nought to do with thinking — that's your 



We wish no other. 



That is still better. 



You are our General, and give out the orders ; 
We follow you, though the track lead to hell. 

BUTLER {appeased). 
Good then ! we know each other. 

MACDONALD. 

I should hope so. 

DEVEREUX. 

Soldiers of fortune are we — who bids most, 
He has us. 

MACDONALD. 

'Tise'enso! 

BUTLER. 

Well, for the present 
Ye must remain honest and faithful soldiers. 

DEVEREUX. 
BUTLER. 

Ay, and make your fortunes. 

MACDONALD. 
BUTLER. 

Listen ! 

j BOTH. 

' We attend. 

BUTLER. 

; It is the Emperor's vdll and ordinance 

To seize the person of the Prince-duke Friedland, 
Alive or dead. 

DEVEREUX. 

It runs so in the letter. 

MACDONALD. 

Alive or dead — these were the very words. 

BUTLER. 

And he shall be rewarded from the State 
In land and gold, who proffers aid thereto. 

DEVEREUX. 

Ay ! that sounds well. The words sound always well 
That travel hither from the Court. Yes ! yes ! 
We know already what Court-words import. 
A golden chain perhaps in sign of favor. 
Or an old charger, or a parchment patent, 
I And such like. — ^The Prince-duke pays better. 

MACDONALD. 

Yes, 
The Duke's a splendid paymaster. 

BUTLER. 

All over 
With that, my friends ! His lucky stars are set. 

MACDONALD. 

And is that certain? 

BUTLER. 

You have my word for it. 

DEVEREUX. 

His lucky fortunes all past by ? 

BUTLER. 

For ever. 
He is as poor as we. 

2 A 



MACDONALD. 

As poor as we ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Macdonald, we '11 desert him. 

BUTLER. 

We '11 desert him? 
Full twenty thousand have done that already ; 
We must do more, my countrymen ! In short — 
We — we must kill him. 

BOTH {starting back). 
Kill him! 

BUTLER. 

Yes ! must kill him ; 
And for that purpose have I chosen you. 

BOTH. 

Us! 

BUTLER. 

You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald. 

DEVEREUX (after a pause). 
Choose you some other. 

BUTLER. 

What? art dastardly? 
Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for — 
Thou conscientious of a sudden ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay, 
To assassinate our Lord and General — 

MACDONALD. 

To whom we 've sworn a soldier's oath — 



The oath 
Is null, for Friedland is a traitor. 

DEVEREUX. 

No, no ! it is too bad ! 

MACDONALD. 

Yes, by my soul ! 
It is too bad. One has a conscience too— - 

DEVEREUX. 

If it were not our Chieftain, who so long 

Has issued the commands, and claim'd our duty. 

BUTLER. 

Is that the objection ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Were it my own father, 
And the Emperor's service should demand it of me, 
It might be done, perhaps — But we are soldiers, 
And to assassinate our Chief Commander, 
That is a sin, a foul abomination, 
From which no Monk or Confessor absolves us 

BUTLER. 

I am your Pope, and give you absolution. 
Determine quickly! 

DEVEREUX. 

'Twill not do. 

MACDONALD. 

'T wont do! 

BUTLER. 

Well, off then ! and — send Pestalutz to me. 

DEVEREUX {hesitates). 
The Pestalutz— 

MACDONALD. 

What may you want with him ? 

BUTLER. 

If you reject it, we can find enough — 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty 
201 



192 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As well as any other. What think you, 
Brother Macdonald ? 

MACDONALD. 

Why, if he must fall, 
And vnll fall, and it can't be otherwise, 
One would not give place to this Pestalutz. 
DEVEREUX (after some reflection). 
When do you purpose he should fall ? 

BUTLER. 

This night 
To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gates. 

DEVEREUX. 

You take upon you all the consequences ' 

BUTLER. 

I take the whole upon me. 

DEVEREUX. 

And it is 
The Emperor's will, his express absolute will? 
For we have instances, that folks may like 
The murder, and yet hang the murderer. 

BUTLER. 

The manifesto says — alive or dead. 
AUve — 'tis not possible — you see it is not. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well, dead then ! dead ! But how can we come at him ? 
The town is fill'd with Tertsky's soldiery. 

MACDONALD. 

Ay ! and then Tertsky still remains, and lUo — 

BUTLER. 

With these you shall begin — ^you understand me ? 

DEVEREUX. 

How ? And must they too perish ? 

BUTLER. 

They the first 

MACDONALD. 

Hear, Devereux ! A bloody evening this. 

DEVEREUX. 

Have you a man for that ? Commission me — 

BUTLER. 

'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin; 
This is a carnival night, and there 's a feast 
Given at the castle — there we shall surprise them. 
And hew them down. The Pestalutz, and Lesley 
Have that commission — soon as that is finish'd — 

DEVEREUX. 

Hear, General ! It will be all one to you — 
Harkye, let me exchange with Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

'Twill be the lesser danger with the Duke. 

DEVEREUX. 

Danger! the devil! What do you think me. General ? 
'Tis the Duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear. 

BUTLER. 

What can his eye do to thee ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Death and hell ! 
Thou know'st that I'm no milk-sop, General ! 
But 'tis not eight days since the Duke did send me 
Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat 
Which I have on ! and then for him to see me 
Standing before him vdth the pike, his murderer, 
That eye of his looking upon this coat — 
Why — why-r-the devil fetch me ! I'm no milk-sop ! 

• BUTLER. 

The Duke presented thee this good warm coat. 
And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience 



To run him through the body in return. 

A coat that is far better and far warmer 

Did the Emperor give to him, the Prince's mantle. 

How doth he thank the Emperor ? With revolt, 

And treason. 

DEVEREUX. 

That is true. The devil take 
Such thankers ! I '11 dispatch him. 

BUTLER. 

And wouldst quiet 
Thy conscience, thou hast naught to do but simply 
Pull off the coat ; so canst thou do the deed 
With light heart and good spirits. 

DEVEREUX. 

You are right. 
That did not strike me. I '11 pull off the coat — 
So there 's an end of it. 

MACDONALD. 

Yes, but there's another 
Point to be thought of 

BUTLER. 

And what's that, Macdonald? 

MACDONALD. 

What avails sword or dagger against him ? 
He is not to be wounded — he is — 

BUTLER (starting up). 

What? 

MACDONALD. 

Safe against shot, and stab and flash ! Hard frozen, 
Secured, and warranted by the black art ! 
His body is impenetrable, I tell you. 

DEVEREUX. 

In Inglestadt there was just such another: 

His whole skin was the same as steel ; at last 

We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks. 

MACDONALD. 

Hear what I '11 do- 

DEVEREUX. 

Well? 

MACDONALD. 

In the cloister here 
There 's a Dominican, my countryman. 
I '11 make him dip my sword and pike for me 
In holy water, and say over them 
One of his strongest blessings. That 's probatum. 
Nothing can stand 'gainst that. 

BUTLER. 

So do, Macdonald 
But now go and select from out the regiment 
Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows, 
And let them take the oaths to the Emperor. 
Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds 
Are pass'd, conduct them silently as may be 
To the house — I will myself be not far off 

DEVEREUX. 

But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon 
That stand on guard there in the inner chamber ? 

BUTLER. 

I have made myself acquainted with the place. 
I lead you through a back-door that's defended 
By one man only. Me my rank and office 
Give access to the Duke at every hour, 
I'll go before you — with one poniard-stroke 
Cut Hartschier's windpipe, and make way for you 

DEVEREUX. 

And when we are there, by what means shall we gain 

202 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



193 



The Duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming 
The servants of the Court ; for he has here 
A numerous company of followers ? 

BUTLER. 

The attendants fill the right wing ; he hates bustle, 
And lodges in the left wing quite alone. 

DEVEREUX. 

Were it well over — hey, Macdonald ? I 
Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows ! 

MACDONALD. 

And I too. 'T is too great a personage. 
People will hold us for a brace of villains. 

BUTLER. 

In plenty, honor, splendor — You may safely 
Laugh at the people's babble. 

DEVEREUX. 

If the business 
Squares with one's honor — if that be quite certain — 

BUTLER. 

Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand 
His Crown and Empire. The reward can be 
No small one. 

DEVEREUX. 

And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the Emperor? 

BUTLER. 

Yes ! — Yes !-^to rob him of his Crown and Life. 

DEVEREUX. 

And he must fall by the executioner's hands, 
Should we deliver him up to the Emperor 
Alive ? 

BUTLER. 

It were his certain destiny. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well ! Well ! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not 
Lie long in pain. 

[Exeunt Butler through one door, Macdonald and 
Devereux through the other. 



SCENE in. 



Scene — A Gothic and gloomy Apartment at the Duchess 
Friedland's. Thekla on a seat, pale, her eyes 
closed. The Duchess and Lady Neubrunn 
busied about her. Wallenstein and the Countess 
i» conversation. 

wallenstein. 
How knew she it so soon ? 

countess. 

She seems to have 
Foreboded some misfortune. The report 
Of an engagement, in the which had fallen 
A colonel of the Imperial army, frighten'd her. 
I saw it instantly. She flew to meet 
The Swedish courier, and with sudden questioning, 
Soon wrested from him the disastrous secret. 
Too late we miss'd her, hasten'd after her, 
We found her lying in his arms, all pale 
And in a swoon. 

wallenstein. 
A heavy, heavy blow ! 
And she so unprepared ! Poor child ! How is it ? 

[Turning to the Duchess. 
Is she coming to herself? 

duchess. 

Her eyes are opening. 

COUNTESS. 

She lives. 



thekla {looMng around her). 
Where am I ? 
WALLENSTEIN {steps to her, raising her up in his arms). 
Come, cheerly, Thekla ! be my own brave girl ! 
See, there's thy loving mother. Thou art in 
Thy father's arms. 

THEKLA {standing up). 

Where is he ? Is he gone ? 

DUCHESS. 

Who gone, my daughter ? 

THEKLA. 

He — the man who utter'd 
That word of misery. 

DUCHESS. 

O ! think not of it, 
My Thekla! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Give her sorrow leave to talk ! 
Let her complain — mingle your tears with hers. 
For she hath suffer'd a deep anguish ; but 
She '11 rise superior to it, for my Thekla 
Hath all her father's unsubdued heart. 

THEKLA. 

I am not ill. See, I have power to stand. 

Why does my mother weep ? Have I alarm'd her ? 

It is gone by — I recollect myself— 

[She casts her eyes round the room, as seeking some 
one. 
Where is he ? Please you, do not hide him from me. 
You see I have strength enough : now I will hear him. 

DUCHESS. 

No, never shall this messenger of evil 
Enter again into thy presence, Thekla ! 

THEKLA. 

My father — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Dearest daughter ! 

THEKLA. 

I 'm not weak — 
Shortly I shall be quite myself again. 
You '11 grant me one request ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Name it, my daughter 

THEKLA. 

Permit the stranger to be call'd to me. 
And grant me leave, that by myself I may 
Hear his report and question him. 

DUCHESS. 

No, never ! 

COUNTESS. 

'Tis not advisable — assent not to it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hush ! Wherefore wouldst thou speak with him, my 
daughter ? 

THEKLA, 

Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected : 
I will not be deceived. My mother wishes 
Only to spare me. I will not be spared, 
The worst is said already : I can hear 
Nothing of deeper anguish ! 

DUCHESS and countess. 
Do it not. 

THEKLA. 

The horror overpower'd me by surprise. 
My heart betray'd me in the stranger's presence ; 
He was a witness of my weakness, yea, 
203 



( 



194 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I sank into his arms ; and that has shamed me. 
I must replace myself in his esteem, 
And I must speak with him, perforce, that he, 
The stranger, may not think ungently of me. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I see she is in the right, and am inclined 

To grant her this request of hers. Go, call him. 

(Lady Neubrunn goes to call him). 

DUCHESS. 

But I, thy mother, will be present — 

THEKLA. 

'Twere 
More pleasing to me, if alone I saw him : 
Trust me, I shall behave myself the more 
Collectedly. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Permit her her own will. 
Leave her alone with him : for there are sorrows, 
Where of necessity the soul must be 
Its own support. A strong heart will rely 
On its own strength alone. In her own bosom, 
Not in her mother's arms, must she collect 
The strength to rise superior to this blow. 
It is mine own brave girl. I '11 have her treated 
Not as the woman, but the heroine. (Going. 

COUNTESS {detaining him). 
Where art thou going ? I heard Tertsky say 
That 'tis thy purpose to depart from hence 
To-morrow early, but to leave us here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection 
Of gallant men. 

COUNTESS. 

O take us with you, brother ! 
Leave us not in this gloomy solitude 
To brood o'er anxious thoughts. The mists of doubt 
Magnify evils to a shape of horror. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who speaks of evil ? I entreat you, sister. 
Use words of better omen. 

COUNTESS. 

Then take us with you. 

leave us not behind you in a place 
That forces us to such sad omens. Heavy 
And sick within me is my heart ■ 

These walls breathe on me, like a church-yard vault. 

1 cannot tell you, brother, how this place 
Doth go against my nature. Take us with you. 
Come, sister, join you your entreaty ! — Niece, 
Yours too. We all entreat you^ take us with you ! 

WALLENSTEIN- 

The place's evil omens will I change. 

Making it that which shields and shelters for me 

My best beloved. 

LADY NEUBRUNN (returning). 
The Swedish officer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave her alone with me. [Exit. 

DUCHESS (to Thekla, who slatts and shivers). 
There — pale as death ! — Child, 'tis impossible 
That thou shouldst speak with him. Follow thy mother. 

thekla. 
The Lady Neubrunn then may stay wilh me. 

[Exeunt Duchess and Countess. 



SCENE IV. 
Thekla, the Swedish Captain, Lady Neubrunn. 

CAPTAIN (respectfully approaching her). 
Princess — I must entreat your gentle pardon — 
My inconsiderate rash speech — How could I — 

thekla (with dignity). 
You have beheld me in my agony. 
A most distressful accident occasion'd 
You from a stranger to become at once 
My confidant. 

CAPTAIN. 

I fear you hate my presence, 
For my tongue spake a melancholy word. 

THEKLA. 

The fault is mine. Myself did wrest it from you. 
The horror which came o'er me interrupted 
Your tale at its commencement. May it please you, 
Continue it to the end. 

CAPTAIN. 

Princess, 'twill 
Renew your anguish. 

THEKLA. 

I am firm. 
I will be firm. Well — ^how began the engagement ? 

CAPTAIN. 

We, lay, expecting no attack, at Neustadt, 
Intrench'd but insecurely in our camp. 
When towards evening rose a cloud of dust 
From the wood thitherward ; our vanguard fled 
Into the camp, and sounded the alarm. 
Scarce had we mounted, ere the Pappenheimers, 
Their horses at full speed, broke through the lines. 
And leapt the trenches ; but their heedless courage 
Had borne them onward far before the others — 
The infantry were still at distance only. 
The Pappenheimers follow'd daringly 
Their daring leader 

[Thekla betrays agitation in her gestures. The 
Officer pauses till she makes a sign to him to 
proceed. 

CAPTAIN. 

Both in van and flanks 
With our whole cavalry we now received them ; 
Back to the trenches drove them, where the foot 
Stretch'd out a solid ridge of pikes to meet them. 
They neither could advance, nor yet retreat • 
And as they stood on every side wedged in. 
The Rhinegrave to their leader call'd aloud. 
Inviting a surrender ; but their leader. 

Young Piccolomini 

[Thekla, as giddy, grasps a chair. 
Known by his plume. 
And his long hair, gave signal for the trenches ; 
Himself leapt first, the regiment all plunged after 
His charger, by a halbert gored, rear'd up. 
Flung him with violence ofl^ and over him 

The horses, now no longer to be curb'd, 

[Thekla who has accompanied the last speech with 
all the marks of increasing agony, trembles 
through her whole frame, and is falling. The 
Lady Neubrunn runs to her, and receives her 
in her arms. 



neubrunn. 



My dearest lady 



204 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



195 



CAPTAIN. 

I retire. 

THEKLA. 

'T is over. 
Proceed to the conclusion. 

CAPTAIN. 

Wild despair 
Inspired the troops with frenzy when they saw 
Their leader perish ; every thought of rescue 
Was spurn'd ; they fought like wounded tigers ; their 
Frantic resistance roused our soldiery ; 
A murderous fight took place, nor was the contest 
Finish'd before their last man fell. 
THEKLA {faltering). 

And where 

Where is — You have not told me all. 

CAPTAIN {after a pause). 

This morning 
We buried him. Twelve youths of noblest birth 
Did bear him to interment ; the whole army 
FoUow'd the bier. A laurel deck'd his coffin ; 
The sword of the deceased was placed upon it, 
In mark of honor, by the Rhinegrave's self. 
Nor tears were wanting ; for there are among us 
Many, who had themselves experienced 
The greatness of his mind, and gentle manners ; 
All were affected at his fate. The Rhinegrave 
Would willingly have saved him ; but himself 
Made vain the attempt — 'tis said he wish'd to die 

NEUBRUNN {to Thekla, who has hidden her coun- 
tenance). 
Look up, my dearest lady 

THEKLA. 

Where is his grave ? 

CAPTAIN. 

At Neustadt, lady ; in a cloister church 

Are his remains deposited, until 

We can receive directions from his father. 

THEKLA. 

What is the cloister's name ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Saint Catherine's. 

THEKLA. 

And how far is it thither ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Near twelve leagues. 

THEKLA. 

And which the way ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You go by Tirschenreit 
And Falkenberg, through our advanced posts. 



CAPTAIN {confused). 

Princess 

[Thekla silently makes signs to him to go, and 
turns from him. The Captain lingers, and 
is about to speak. Lady Neubrunn repeats 
the signal, and he retires. 



Who 



Is their commander ? 



CAPTAIN. 

Colonel Seckendorf. 

[THEKLA steps to the table, and takes a ring from 
a casket. 

THEKLA. 

You have beheld me in my agony, 

And shown a feeling heart. Please you, accept 

[Giving him the ring. 
A. small memorial of this hour. Now go ! 



SCENE V. 
Thekla, Lady Neubrunn. 

THEKLA {falls on Lady Neubrunn's neck). 
Now, gentle Neubrunn, show me the affection 
Which thou hast ever promised — prove thyself 
My own true friend and faithful fellow-pilgrim. 
This night we must away ! 

neubrunn. 

Away! and whither? 

THEKLA. 

Whither ! There is but one place in the world. 
Thither where he lies buried ! To his coffin ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

What would you do there ? 

THEKLA. 

What do there ? 
That wouldst thou not have ask'd, hadst thou e'er 

loved. 
There, there is all that still remains of him. 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

NEUBRUNN. 

That place of death 

THEKLA. 

Is now the only place. 
Where life yet dwells for me : detain me not ! 
Come and make preparations : let us think 
Of means to fly from hence. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your father's rage— — 

THEKLA. 

That time is past 

And now I fear no human being's rage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

The sentence of the world ! The tongue of calumny ! 

THEKLA. 

Whom am I seeking ? Him who is no more. 

Am I then hastening to the arms O God ! 

I haste but to the grave of the beloved. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And we alone, two helpless feeble women ? 

THEKLA. 

We will take weapons : my arm shall protect thee. 

NEUBRUNN. 

In the dark night-time ? 

THEKLA. 

Darkness will conceal us. 

NEUBRUNN. 

This rough tempestuous night 

THEKLA. 

Had he a soft bed 
Under the hoofs of his war-horses ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

Heaven ! 
And then the many posts of the enemy ! 

THEKLA. 

They are human beings. Misery travels free 
Through the whole earth. 

205 



196 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



NEUBRUNN. 

The journey's weary length — 

THEKLA. 

The pilgrim, travelling to a distant shrine 

Of hope and healing, doth not count the leagues. 

NEUBRUNN. 

How can we pass the gates ? 

. THEKLA. 

Gold opens them. 
Go, do but go. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Should we be recognized — 

THEKLA. 

In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive, 

Will no one seek the daughter of Duke Friedland. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And where procure we horses for our flight ? 

THEKLA. 

My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord ? 

THEKLA. 

He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dear lady ! and your mother ? 

THEKLA. 

Oh ! my mother ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

So much as she has sufFer'd too already ; 
Your tender mother — Ah ! how ill prepared 
For this last anguish ! 

THEKLA. 

Woe is me ! my mother ! 

[Pauses^ 
Go instantly. 

NEUBRUNN. 

But think what you are doing ! 

THEKLA. 

What can be thought, already has been thought. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And being there, what purpose you to do ? 

THEKLA. 

There a Divinity will prompt my soul. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted ! 

And this is not the way that leads to quiet. 

THEKLA. 

To a deep quiet, such as he has found, 

It draws me on, I know not what to name it, 

Resistless does it draw me to his grave. 

There will my heart be eased, my tears will flow. 

hasten, make no further questioning ! 
There is no rest for me till I have left 

These walls — they fall in on me — a dim power 
Drives me from hence — O mercy ! What a feeling ! 
What pale and hollow forms are those ! They fill. 
They crowd the place ! I have no longer room here ! 
Mercy ! Still more ! More still ! The hideous swarm ! 
They press on me ; they chase me from these walls — 
Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

You frighten me so, lady, that no longer 

1 dare stay here myself. I go and call 
Rosenberg instantly. [Exit Lady Neubrunn 



SCENE VI. 

THEKLA. 

His spirit 'tis that calls me : 'tis the troop 

Of his true followers, who offer'd up 

Themselves to avenge his death : and they accuse me 

Of an ignoble loitering — they would not 

Forsake their leader even in his death — they died for 

him ! 
And shall I live ? — 

For me too was that laurel-garland twined 
That decks his bier. Life is an empty casket : 
I throw it from me. O ! my only hope ; — 
To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds — 
That is the lot of heroes upon earth ! [Exit Thekla.* 
{The curtain drops). 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

Scene — A Saloon, terminated by a Gallery which ex- 
tends far into the hack-ground. 



Wallenstein 



at a table). 



The Swedish Captain {standing before him). 
wallenstein. 
Commend me to your lord. I sympathize 
In his good fortune ; and if you have seen me 
Deficient in the expressions of that joy, 
Which such a victory might well demand, 
Attribute it to no lack of good- will, 
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell, 
And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow 
The citadel shall be surrender'd to you 
On your arrival. 

[The Swedish Captain retires. Wallenstein sits 
lost in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his 
head sustained by his hand. The Countess 
Tertsky enters, stands before him awhile, un- 
observed by him ,• at length he starts, sees her 
and recollects himself. 

wallenstein. 
Comest thou from her ? Is she restored ? How is she ? 

countess. 
My sister tells me, she was more collected 
After her conversation with the Swede. 
She has now retired to rest. 

wallenstein. 

The pang will soften. 
She will shed tears. 

COUNTESS. 

I find thee alter'd too, 
My brother ! After such a victory 
I had expected to have found in thee 
A cheerful spirit. O remain thou firm ! 
Sustain, uphold us ! For our light thou art. 
Our sun. 

wallenstein. 
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where 's 
Thy husband ? 



* The soliloquy of Thekla consists in the original of six-and- 
twenty lines, twenty of which are in rhymes of irregular recur- 
rence. I thought it prudent to abridge it. Indeed the whole scene 
between Thekla and Lady Neubrunn might, perhaps, have been 
omitted without injury to the play. 

206 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



197 



COUNTESS. 

At a banquet — he and Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN (rises and strides across the saloon). 

The night 's far spent. Betake thee to thy chamber. 

COUNTESS. 

Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee ! 

WALLENSTEIN {moves to the window). 
There is a busy motion in the Heaven, 
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower, 
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle* of the moon, 
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light. 
No form of star is visible ! That one 
Wliite stain of light, that single glimmering yonder, 
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein 
Is Jupiter. (A pause). But now 
The blackness of the troubled element hides him! 
[He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks 
vacantly into the distance. 
COUNTESS {looks on him mournfully, then grasps his 

hand). 
What art thou brooding on? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Methinks, 
If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me. 
He is the star of my nativity, 
And often marvellously hath his aspect 
Shot strength into my heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Thou 'It see him again. 
WALLENSTEIN (remains for a while with absent mind, 

then assumes a livelier manner, and turns suddenly 

to the Countess). 
See him again ? O never, never again ! 



How? 



COUNTESS. 
WALLENSTEIN. . 

He is gone — is dust. 

COUNTESS. 

Whom meanest thou then? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He, the more fortunate ! yea, he hath finish'd ! 

For him there is no longer any future, 

His life is bright — bright without spot it was, 

And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour 

Knocks at his door vdth tidings of mishap. 

Far off is he, above desire and fear ; 

No more submitted to the change and chance 

Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well 

With him! but who knows what the coming hour 

Veil'd in thick darkness brings for us ? 

* These four lines are expressed in the original with exquisite 
felicity. 

Am Himmel ist geschaeftige Bewegung, 

Des Thurmes Fahne jagt der Wind, schnell geht 

Der Wolken Zug, die Mondes- Sichel wankt, •> 

Und durch die Nacht zuckt ungewisse Helie. 

The word " moon-sickle," reminds me of a passage in Har- 
ris, as quoted by Johnson, under the word " falcated." " The 
enlightened part of the moon appears in the form of a sickle or 
reaping-hook, which is while she is moving from the conjunc- 
tion to the opposition, or from the new-moon to the full: but 
from full to a new again, the enlightened pan appears gibbous, 
and the dark falcated.^' 

The words " wanken" and " schweben" are not easily trans- 
lated. The English words, by which we attempt to render 
them, are either vulgar or pedantic, or not of sufficiently gene- 
ral application. So "der Wolken Zug"— The Draft, the Pro- 
cession of clouds.— The Masses of the Clouds sweep onward 
in swift stream. 



COUNTESS. 

Thou speakesl 
Of Piccolomini. What was his death ? 
The courier had just left thee as I came. 

[WALLENSTEIN by a motion of Jiis hand makes 
signs to her to be .silent. 
Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view, 
Let us look forward into sunny days. 
Welcome with joyous heart the victory. 
Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day. 
For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead ; 
To thee he died, when first he parted from thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This anguish will be wearied down,* I know ; 
What pang is permanent with man ? From the highest, 
As from the vilest thing of every day 
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours 
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
In him. The bloom is vanish'd from my life. 
For O ! he stood beside me, hke my youth, 
Transform'd for me the real to a dream, 
Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils. 
The beautiful is vanish'd — and returns not. 

COUNTESS. 

O be not treacherous to thy own power. 
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify 
Itself Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him, 
The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold. 

WALLENSTEIN {stepping to the door). 
Who interrupts us now at this late hour ? 
It is the Governor. He brings the keys 
Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister! 

COUNTESS. 

'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee — 
A boding fear possesses me ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fear? Wherefore? 

COUNTESS. 

Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking 
Never more find thee ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fancies ! 

COUNTESS. 

O my soul 
Has long been weigh'd down by these dark forebodings: 
And if I combat and repel them waking. 
They still rush down upon my heart in dreams. 

1 saw thee yester-night with thy first wife 
Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This was a dream of favorable omen. 

That marriage being the founder of my fortunes. 

COUNTESS. 

To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee 

In thy own chamber. As I enter 'd, lo ! 

It was no more a chamber : the Chartreuse 

At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded. 



A very inadequate translation of the original. 
Verschmerzen werd' ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich, 
Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch ! 

LITERALLY. 
I shall grieve down this blow, of that I 'm conscious : 
What does not man grieve down ? 

207 



198 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be 
Interr'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thy soul is busy with these thoughts. 

COUNTESS. 

What ! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams 
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There is no doubt that there exist such voices. 

Yet I would not call them 

Voices of warning that announce to us 

Only the inevitable. As the sun, 

Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image 

In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits 

Of great events stride on before the events. 

And in to-day already walks to-morrow. 

That which we read of the fourth Henry's death 

Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale 

Of my own future destiny. The king 

Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife. 

Long ere Ravaillac arra'd himself therewith. 

His quiet mind forsook him : the phantasma 

Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth 

Into the open air : like funeral knells 

Sounded that coronation festival ; 

And still vdth boding sense he heard the tread 

Of those feet that even then were seeking him 

Throughout the streets of Paris. 

COUNTESS. 

And to thee 
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Nothing. 
Be wholly tranquil. 

COUNTESS. 

And another time 
I hasten'd after thee, and thou rann'st from me 
Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall. 
There seem'd no end of it: doors creak'd and clapp'd; 
I follow'd panting, but could not o'ertake thee ; 
When on a sudden did I feel myself 
Grasp'd from behind — the hand was cold, that 

grasp'd me — 
'T was thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seem'd 
A crimson covering to envelop us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber. 

COUNTESS {gazing on him). 
If it should come to that — if I should see thee, 
Who standest now before me in the fullness 
Of life — [She falls on his breast and weeps. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee — 
Alphabets wound not — and he finds no hands. 

COUNTESS. 

If he should find them, my resolve is taken — 
I bear about me my support and refuge. 

[Exit Countess. 



SCENE II. 

WALLENSTEIN, GORDON. 
WALLENSTEIN. 

All quiet in the town ? 

GORDON. 

The town is quiet. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

I hear a boisterous music ! and the Castle 
Is lighted up. Who are the revellers ? 

GORDON. 

There is a banquet given at the Castle 

To the Count Tertsky, and Field Marshal lUo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In honor of the victory — This tribe 

Can show their joy in nothing else but feasting. 

[Rings. The Groom of the Chamber enters. 
Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep. 

[WALLENSTEIN tttJces the heysfrom Gordon. 
So we are guarded from all enemies, 
And shut in with sure friends. 
For all must cheat me, or a face hke this 

[Fixing his eye on Gordon. 
Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask. 

[The Groom of the Chamber takes off his man- 
tle, collar, and scarf. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Take care — what is that ? 

groom of the CHAMBER. 

The golden chain is snapped in two. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well, it has lasted long enough. Here — give it. 

[He takes and looks at the chain. 
'Twas the first present of the Emperor. 
He hung it round me in the war of Friule, 
He being then Archduke; and I have worn it 

Till now from habit 

From superstition, if you will. Behke, 

It was to be a Talisman to me ; 

And while I wore it on my neck in faith. 

It was to chain to me all my life long 

The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was. 

Well, be it so ! Henceforward a new fortune 

Must spring up for me ; for the potency 

Of this charm is dissolved. 

Groom of the Chamber retires vnth the vest' 
ments. Wallenstein rises, takes a stride 
across the room, and stands at last before 
Gordon in a posture of meditation. 
How the old time returns upon me ! I 
Behold myself once more at Burgau, where 
We two were Pages of the Court together. 
We oftentimes disputed : thy intention 
Was ever good ; but thou wert wont to play 
The Moralist and Preacher, and wouldst rail at me— 
That I strove after things too high for me, 
Giving my faith to bold unlawful dreams. 
And still extol to me the golden mean, 
— Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend 
To thy own self See, it has made thee early 
A superannuated man, and (but 
That my munificent stars will intervene) 
Would let thee in some miserable comer 
Go out like an untended lamp. 

GORDON. 

My Prince ! 
With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat, 
And watches from the shore the lofty ship 
Stranded amid the storm. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Art thou already 
208 



THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 



199 



Tn harbor then, old man ? Well ! I am not. 
The unconquer'd spirit drives me o'er life's billows ; 
My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly. 
Hope is my goddess still, and Youth my inmate ; 
And while we stand thus front to front almost, 
I might presume to say, that the swift years 
Have pass'd by powerless o'er my unblanch'd hair. 
[He moves with long strides across the Saloon, and 

remains on the opposite side over-against 

Gordon. 
Who now persists in calling Fortune false ? 
To me she has proved faithful, with fond love 
Took me from out the common ranks of men, 
And like a mother goddess, with strong arm 
Carried me swiftly up the steps of life. 
Nothing is common in my destiny. 
Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares 
Interpret then my life for me as 't were 
One of the undistinguishable many ? 
True, in this present moment I appear 
Fallen low indeed ; but I shall rise again. 
The high flood will soon follow on this ebb ; 
The fountain of my fortune, which now stops 
Repress'd and bound by some malicious star, 
Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes. 

GORDON. 

And yet remember I the good old proverb, 
" Let the night come beibre we praise the day." 
I would be slow from long-continued fortune 
To gather hope : for Hope is the companion 
Given to the unfortunate by pitying Heaven ; 
Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men : 
For still unsteady are the scales of fate. 

WALLENSTEIN (smiUng). 
I hear the very Gordon that of old 
Was wont to preach to me, now once more preaching; 
I know well, that all sublunary things 
Are still the vassals of vicissitude. 
The unpropitious gods demand their tribute. 
This long ago the ancient Pagans knew : 
And therefore of their own accord they oflfer'd 
To themselves injuries, so to atone 
The jealousy of their divinities : 
And human sacrifices bled to Typhon. 

[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued 
manner. 
I too have sacrificed to him — For me 
There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault 
He fell ! No joy from favorable fortune 
Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke. 
The envy of my destiny is glutted : 
Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning 
Was drawn oflf which would else have shatter'd me. 



SCENE m. 

To these enter Seni. 



WALLENSTEIN. 

Is not that Seni ? and beside himself. 

If one may trust his looks? What brings thee hither 

At this late hour, Baptista ? 

SENI. 

Terror, Duke ! 
On thy account. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What now 1 
2B 



Flee ere the day-break ! 
Trust not thy person to the Swedes ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What now 
Is in thy thoughts ? 

SENI {with louder voice). 
Trust not thy person to these Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What is it then ? 
SENI {still more urgently). 

wait not the arrival of these Swedes ! 
An evil near at hand is threatening thee 

From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror ! 
Near, near at hand the net- work of perdition — 
Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Baptista, thou art dreaming ! — Fear befools thee 

SENI. 

Believe not that an empty fear deludes me. 
Come, read it in the planetary aspects ; 
Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee 
From false friends ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From the falseness of my friends 
Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes. 
The warning should have come before. At present 

1 need no revelation from the stars 
To know that. 

SENI. 

Come and see ! trust thine own eyes ! 
A fearful sign stands in the house of life — 
An enemy ; a fiend lurks close behind 
The radiance of thy planet. — O be warn'd ! 
Deliver not thyself up to these heathens, 
To wage a war against our holy church. 

WALLENSTEIN {laughing gently). 
The oracle rails that way ! Yes, yes ! Now 
I recollect. This junction with the Swedes 
Did never please thee — lay thyself to sleep, 
Baptista ! Signs like these I do not fear. 

GORDON {who during the whole of this dialogue has 
shown marks of extreme agitation, and now turns to 

WALLENSTEIN). 

My Duke and General ! May I dare presume ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Speak freely. 

GORDON. 

What if 'twere no mere creation 
Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed 
To interpose its aid for your deliverance, 
And made that mouth its organ ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye 're both feverish ! 
How can mishap come to me from these Swedes ? 
They sought this junction with me — 'tis their in- 
terest. 
GORDON {with difficulty suppressing his emotion). 
But what if the arrival of these Swedes — 
What if this were the very thing that wing'd 
The ruin that is flying to your temples ? 

[Flings himself at his feet. 
There is yet time, my Prince. 

SENI. 

I O hear him ! hear him ' 

209 



200 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



GORDON (rises). 
The Rhinegrave 's still far off! Give but the orders, 
This citadel shall close its gates upon him. 
If then he will besiege us, let him try it. 
But this I say ; he '11 find his own destruction 
With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner 
Than weary down the valor of our spirit. 
He shall experience what a band of heroes, 
Inspirited by an heroic leader. 
Is able to perform. And if indeed 
It be thy serious wish to make amend 
For that which thou hast done amiss, — this, this 
Will touch and reconcile the Emperor 
Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy, 
And Friedland, who returns repentant to him. 
Will stand yet higher in his Emperor's favor. 
Than e'er he stood when he had never fallen. 

WALLENSTEiN {contemplates him wiih surprise, remains 

silent awhile, betraying strong emotion). 
Gordon — your zeal and fervor lead you far. 
Well, well — an old friend has a privilege. 
Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never 
Can the Emperor pardon me : and if he could, 
Yet I — I ne'er could let myself be pardon'd. 
Had I foreknown what now has taken place, 
That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me. 
My first death-offering ; and had the heart 
Spoken to me, as now it has done — Gordon, 
It may be, I might have bethought myself. 
It may be too, I might not. Might or might not, 
Is now an idle question. All too seriously 
Has it begun, to end in nothing, Gordon ! 
Let it then have its course. 

[Stuping to the vdndow. 
All dark and silent — at the Castle too 
All is now hush'd — Light me. Chamberlain ! 

[The Groom of the Chamber, who had entered 
during the last dialogue, and had been stand- 
ing at a distance and listening to it vxith 
visible expressions of the deepest interest, ad- 
vances in extreme agitation, and throws hinv- 
self at the Duke's feet. 
And thou too ! But I know why thou dost wish 
My reconcilement with the Emperor. 
Poor man ! he hath a small estate in Caemthen, 
And fears it will be forfeited because 
He 's in my service. Am I then so poor. 
That I no longer can indemnify 
My servants ? Well ! to no one I employ 
Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief 
That Fortune has fled from me, go ! forsake me. 
This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me, 
And then go over to thy Emperor. 
Gordon, good night ! I think to make a long 
Sleep of it : for the struggle and the turmoil 
Of this last day or two was great. May 't please you ! 
Take care that they awake me not too early. 

\Exit WALLENSTEIN,<Ae GrOOM OF THE CHAMBER 

lighting him. Seni follows, Gordon remains 
on the darJcened stage, following the Duke 
wiih his eye, till he disappears at the farther 
end of the gallery : then by his gestures the old 
man expresses the depth of his anguish, and 
stands leaning against a pillar. 



SCENE IV. 
Gordon, Butler (at first behind the Scenes). 
BUTLER (not yet come into view of the stage). 
Here stand in silence till I give the signal. 

GORDON (starts up). 
'Tis he, he has already brought the murderers. 

BUTLER. 

The lights are out. All hes in profound sleep. 

GORDON. 

What shall I do ? Shall I attempt to save him ? 
Shall I call up the house ? Alarm the guards ? 
BUTLER (appears, but scarcely on the stage). 
A light gleams hither from the corridor. 
It leads directly to the Duke's bed-chamber. 

GORDON. 

But then I break my oath to the Emperor ; 
If he escape and strengthen the enemy, 
Do I not hereby call down upon my head ' 
All the dread consequences ? 

BUTLER (stepping forward). 

Hark! Who speaks there ? 

GORDON. 

'Tis better, I resign it to the hands 
Of Providence. For what am I, that / 
Should take upon myself so great a deed ? 
/ have not murder'd him, if he be murder'd ; 
But all his rescue were my act and deed ; 
Mine — and whatever be the consequences, 
I must sustain them. 

BUTLER (advances). 

I should know that voice. 

GORDON. 

Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

'Tis Gordon. What do you want here ? 
Was it so late then, when the Duke dismiss'd you ? 

GORDON. 

Your hand bound up and in a scarf? 

BUTLER. 

Tis wounded. 
That lUo fought as he were frantic, till 
At last we threw him on the groimd. 
GORDON (shuddering). 

Both dead ? 

BUTLER. 

Is he in bed ? 

GORDON. 

Ah, Butler! 

BUTLER. 

Is he ? Speak. 

GORDON. 

He shall not perish ! Not through you ' The Heaven 
Refuses your arm. See — 'tis wounded ! — 

BUTLER. 

There is no need of my arm. 

GORDON. 

The most guilty 
Have perish'd, and enough is given to justice. 

[The Groom of the Chamber advances from 
the gallery with his finger on his mouth, com- 
manding silence. 

GORDON. 

He sleeps ! O murder not the holy sleep ! 

BUTLER. 

No ! he shall die awake. [Is going. 

210 



THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 



201 



GORDON. 

His heart still cleaves 
To earthly things : he 's not prepared to step 
Into the presence of his God ! 

BUTLER {going). 

God 's merciful ! 
GORDON (holds him). 
Grant him but this night's respite. 

BUTLER {hurrying off). 

The next moment 
May ruin all. 

GORDON {holds him stiU). 
One hour ! 

BUTLER. 

Unhold me ! What 
Can that short respite profit him ? 

GORDON. 

O— Time 
Works miracles. In one hour many thousands 
Of grains of sand run out ; and quick as they, 
Thought follows thought within the human soul. 
Only one hour ! Your heart may change its purpose, 
His heart may change its purpose — some new tidings 
May come ; some fortunate event, decisive. 
May fall from Heaven and rescue him. O what 
May not one hour achieve ! 

BUTLER. 

You but remind me, 
How precious every minute is ! 

[He stamps on the floor. 



SCENE V. 



To these enter Macdonald, and Devereux, with the 

Halberdiers. 
GORDON {throwing himself between him and them). 
No, monster! 
First over my dead body thou shalt tread. 
I will not live to see the accursed deed ! 

BUTLER {forcing him out of the way). 
Weak-hearted dotard ! 

[Trumpets are heard in the distance. 
devereux and macdonald. 

Hark ! The Swedish trumpets ! 
The Swedes before the ramparts ! Let us hasten ! 

GORDON {rushes out). 
0, God of Mercy ! 

BUTLER {calling after him). 
Governor, to your post! 
GROOM OF THE CHAMBER {hurrics in). 
i Who dares make larum here ? Hush ! The Duke sleeps. 
I DEVEREUX {with a loud harsh voice). 

Friend, it is time now to make larum. 

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER. 



Murder ! 



Help! 



BUTLER. 

Down with him ! 
GROOM OF THE CHAMBER {run through the body by 
Devereux, falls at the entrance of the gallery). 
Jesus Maria ! 

BUTLER. 

Burst the doors open. 

[TTiey rush over the body into the gallery — two 
doors are heard to crash one after the other — 
Voices deadened by the distance — Clash of 
arms — then all at once a profound silence. 



SCENE VI. 

COUNTESS TERTSKY {with a light). 

Her bed-chamber is empty ; she herself 

Is nowhere to be found ! The Neubrunn too, 

Who watch'd by her, is missing. If she should 

Be flown But whither flown ? We must call up 

Every soul in the house. How will the Duke 
Bear up against these worst bad tidings ? O 
If that my husband now were but return'd 
Home from the banquet! — Hark! I wonder whether 
The Duke is still awake ! I thought I heard 
Voices and tread of feet here ! I will go 
And listen at the door. Hark ! what is that ? 
'Tis hastening up the steps! 



SCENE VII. 
Countess, Gordon. 



GORDON {rushes in out of breath). 
'Tis a mistake! 
'Tis not the Swedes — ^Ye must proceed no furtht;*— 
Butler ! — O God ! where is he ? 

GORDON {observing the Countess). 

Countess! Say 

COUNTESS. 

You are come then from the castle ? Where 's my 

husband? 

GORDON {in an agony of affright). 
Your husband ! — Ask not ! — ^To the Duke 

COUNTESS. 

Not till 
You have discover'd to me 

GORDON. 

On this moment 
Does the world hang. For God's sake ! to the Duke. 

While we are speaking 

[Calling loudly. 
Butler! Butler! God! 

COUNTESS. 

Why, he is at the castle with my husband. 

[Butler comes from the Gallery. 

GORDON. 

'Twas a mistake — 'Tis not the Swedes — ^it is 
The Imperialist's Lieutenant-General 
Has sent me hither — Avill be here himself 
Instantly. — You must not proceed. 

BUTLER. 

He comes 
Too late. [Gordon dashes himself against the wall. 

GORDON. 

O God of mercy ! 

COUNTESS. 

What too late ? 
Who will be here himself? Octavio 
In Egra ? Treason ! Treason ! — Where 's the Duke ? 
[She rushes to the Gallery. 



SCENE VIII. 



{Servants run across the Stage full of terror. The whde 
Scene must be spoken entirely without pausti). 
SENi {from the Gallery). 
O bloody frightful deed ! 

211 



202 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



COUNTESS. 

What is it, Seni ? 
PAGE {from the Gallery). 
O piteous sight ! 

[Other Servants hasten in with torches. 

COUNTESS. 

What is it ? For God's sake ! 

SENI. 

And do you ask ? 
Within the Duke lies murder'd — and your husband 
Assassinated at the Castle. 

[The Countess stands motionless. 
FEMALE servant {rushing across the stage). 
Help! Help! the Duchess! 

burgomaster (enters). 

What mean these confused 
Loud cries, that wake the sleepers of this house ? 

GORDON. 

Your house is cursed to all eternity. 
In your house doth the Duke lie murder'd ! 
BURGOMASTER (rusMng out). 

Heaven forbid! 

FIRST SERVANT. 

Fly ! fly ! they murder us all ! 

SECOND SERVANT {carrying silver plate). 

That way ! the lower 
Passages are block'd up. 

VOICE (from behind the Scene). 
Make room for the Lieutenant-General ! 

[At these words the Countess starts from her stupor, 
collects herself, and retires suddenly. 
VOICE (from behind the Scene). 
Keep back the people ! Guard the door I 



SCENE IX. 



To these enters Octavio Piccolomini with all his 
Train. At the same time Devereux and Macdon- 
ALD enter from the Corridor with the Halberdiers. 
— Wallen stein's dead body is carried over the 
back part of the Stage, wrapped in a piece of crim- 
son tapestry. 

octavio {entering abruptly). 
It must not be ! It is not possible ! 
Butler! Gordon! 
I '11 not believe it. Say, No ! 

[Gordon, without answering, points with his hand to 
the Body of Wallenstein as it is carried over 
the back <yf the Stage. Octavio looks that way, 
and stands overpowered with horror. 
devereux {to Butler). 
Here is the golden fleece — the Duke's sword — 

MACDONALD. 

Is it your order — 

BUTLER {pointing to Octavio). 

Here stands he who now 
Hath the sole power to issue orders. 

[Devereux and Macdonald retire with marks of 
obeisance. One drops away after the other, 
till only Butler, Octavio, and Gordon 
remain on the Stage. 
octavio {turning to Butler). 
Was tha,t my purpose, Butler, when we parted ? 
O God of Justice ! 

To thee I lift my hand ! I am not guilty 
Of this foul deed. 



BUTLER. 

Your hand is pure. You have 
Avail'd yourself of mine. 

OCTAVIO. 

Merciless man ! 
Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord — 
And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder, 
With bloody, most accursed assassination ! 

BUTLER {calmly). 
I 've but fulfill'd the Emperor's own sentence. 

OCTAVIO. 

curse of kings. 

Infusing a dread life into their words, 
And linking to the sudden transient thought 
The unchangeable irrevocable deed. 
Was there necessity for such an eager 
Dispatch ? Couldst thou not grant the merciful 
A time for mercy ? Time is man's good Angel. 
To leave no interval between the sentence, 
And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem 
God only, the immutable ! 

BUTLER. 

For what 
Rail you against me ? What is my offence ? 
The Empire from a fearful enemy 
Have I deliver'd, and expect reward. 
The single difference betwixt you and me 
Is this : you placed the arrow in the bow ; 

1 pull'd the string. You sow'd blood, and yet staiid 
Astonish'd that blood is come up. I always 
Knew what I did, and therefore no result 

Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit. 

Have you aught else to order ? for this instant 

I make my best speed to Vienna ; place 

My bleeding sword before my Emperor's Throne, 

And hope to gain the applause which undelapng 

And punctual obedience may demand 

From a just judge, [Exit BuTLER 



SCENE X. 



To these enter the Countess Tertsky, pale and dis 
ordered. Her utterance is slow and feeble, and un- 



OCTAVIO {meeting her). 
O Countess Tertsky ! These are the results 
Of luckless unblest deeds. 

COUNTESS. 

They are the fruits 
Of your contrivances. The duke is dead, . 
My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles 
In the pangs of death, my niece has disappear'd. 
This house of splendor, and of princely glory, 
Doth now stand desolated : the affrighted servant 
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last 
Therein ; I shut it up, and here deliver 
The keys. 

OCTAVIO {vdth a deep anguish). 
O Countess ! my house too is desolate 

COUNTESS. 

Who next is to be murder'd ? Who is next 
To be maltreated ? Lo ! the Duke is dead. 
The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified ! 
Spare the old servants ; let not their fidelity 
Be imputed to the faithful as a crime — 

212 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



203 



\' The evil destiny surprised my brother 

Too suddenly : he could not think on them. 

OCTAVIO. 

Speak not of vengeance ! Speak not of maltreatment ! 

The Emperor is appeased ; the heavy fault 

Hath heavily been expiated — nothing 

Descended from the father to the daughter, 

Except his glory and his services. 

The Empress honors your adversity, 

Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you 

Her motherly arms ! Therefore no farther fears ; 

Yield yourself up in hope and confidence 

To the Imperial Grace I 

COUNTESS {with her eye raised to heaven) 
To the grace and mercy of a greater Master 
Do I yield up myself Where shall the body 
Of the Duke have its place of final rest ? 
In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found 
At Gitschin, rest the Countess Wallenstein ; 
And by her side, to whom he was indebted 
For his first fortunes, gratefully he wish'd 
He might sometime repose in death ! O let him 
Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's 
Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor 
Is now proprietor of all our Castles. 
This sure may well be granted us — one sepulchre 
Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Countess, you tremble, you turn pale ! 
COUNTESS (reassembles all her powers, and speaks with 
energy and dignity). 

You think 



More worthily of me, than to believe 
I would survive the downfall of my house. 
We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp 
After a monarch's crown — the crown did Fate 
Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit 
That to the crown belong ! We deem a 
Courageous death more worthy of our free station 
Than a dishonor'd hfe. — I have taken poison. 



Help! Help! 



OCTAVIO. 

Support her ! 



In a few moments 



COUNTESS. 

Nay, it is too late, 
my fate accomplish'd. 

[Exit Countess. 



GORDON. 

O house of death and horrors ! 

[An Officer enters, and brings a letter with the 
great seal. 
GORDON {steps forward and meets him). 
What is this? 
It is the Imperial Seal. 

[He reads the address, and delivers the letter to 
OcTAVio with a look of reproach, and with 
an emphasis on the word. 
To the Prince Piccolomini. 

[Oct A VI o, with his whole frame expressive of sud- 
den anguish, raises his eyes to heaven. 

{The Curtain drops.) 



KMt :ff^\\ of itoliiei^jiietve; 



AN HISTORIC DRAMA. 



DEDICATION. 



TO H. MARTIN, ESQ. 

OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

Dear Sir, 
Accept, as a small testimony of my grateful attach- 
ment, the following Dramatic Poem, in which I have 
endeavored to detail, in an interesting form, the fall 
of a man, whose great bad actions have cast a dis- 
astrous lustre on his name. In the execution of the 
work, as intricacy of plot could not have been at- 
tempted without a gross violation of recent facts, it 
has- been my sole aim to imitate the impassioned and 
highly figurative language of the French Orators, 
and to develop the characters of the chief actors on 
a vast stage of horrors. 



Yours fraternally, 



S. T. Coleridge. 



Jesus College, September 22, 1794. 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



ACT L 



SCENE, The Tuilleries. 



The tempest gathers — be it mine to seek 
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him. 
But where ? and how ? I fear the Tyrant's soul— 
Sudden in action, fertile in resource, 
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins ; 
In splendor gloomy, as the midnight meteor, 
That fearless thwarts the elemental war. 
When last in secret conference we met, 
He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage. 
Making his eye the inmate of my bosom. 
I know he scorns me — and I feel, I hate him — 
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble ! 

[ExU. 
213 



204 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter Tallien and Legendre. 

TALLIEN. 

It was Barrere, Legendre ! didst thou mark him ? 

Abrupt he turn'd, yet Unger'd as he went, 

And towards us cast a look of doubtful meaning. 

LEGENDRE. 

I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance ; 

It menaced not so proudly as of yore. 

Methought he would have spoke — but that he dared 

not — 
Such agitation darken'd on his brow. 

TALLIEN. 

Twas all-distrusting guilt that kept from bursting 
Th' imprison'd secret struggling in the face : 
E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards 
Hurries the thunder-cloud, that poised awhile 
Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen. 

LEGENDRE. 

Perfidious Traitor! — still afraid to bask 
In the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent 
Lurks in the thicket of the Tyrant's greatness, 
Ever prepared to sting who shelters him. 
Each thought, each action in himself converges ; 
And love and friendship on his coward heart 
Shine like the powerless sun on polar ice : 
To all attach'd, by turns deserting all, 
Cunning and dark — a necessary villain! 

TALLIEN. 

Yet much depends upon him — well you know 
With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint 
Defeat like victory — and blind the mob 
With truth-mix'd falsehood. They, led on by him, 
And wild of head to work their own destruction, 
Support with uproar what he plans in darkness. 

LEGENDRE. 

O what a precious name is Liberty 
To scare or cheat the simple into slaves ! 
Yes — we must gain him over : by dark hints 
We '11 show enough to rouse his watchful fears, 
Till the cold coward blaze a patriot. 
O Danton ! murder'd friend ! assist my counsels- 
Hover around me on sad memory's wings. 
And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart. 
Tallien ! if but to-morrow's fateful sun 
Beholds the Tyrant living — we are dead ! 

TALLIEN. 

Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings — 

LEGENDRE. 

Fear not — or rather fear th' alternative. 

And seek for courage e'en in cowardice. 

But see — hither he comes — let us away ! 

His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon, 

And high of haughty spirit, young St-JusJ. 

[Exewnt. 

Enter Robespierre, Couthon, St-Just, and 
Robespierre Junior. 

robespierre. 
What ! did La Fayette fall before my power ? 
And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues ? 
The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue ? 
And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold ? 
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them ? 
What ! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point 
Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom ? 



And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien ? 
Th' Adonis Tallien? banquet-hunting Tallien? 
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box ? Him, 
Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow 
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers ! 

ST-JUST. 

I cannot fear him — yet we must not scorn him. 
Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus, 
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony? 
The state is not yet purified : and though 
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies 
The thick black sediment of all the factions- 
It needs no magic hand to stir it up ! 

COUTHON. 

we did wrong to spare them — fatal error ! 
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died ? 
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes ? 
I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured 
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles. 
Compared with which the sun-scorch'd wilderness 
Of Zara were a smiling paradise. 

ST-JUST. 

Rightly thou judgest, Couthon ! He is one. 

Who flies from silent solitary anguish. 

Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar 

Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar 

Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself. 

A calm is fatal to him — then he feels 

The dire upboilings of the storm within him. 

A tiger mad with inward wounds. 1 dread 

The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Is not the commune ours ? The stern tribunal? 
Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet? 
And Henriot ? We '11 denounce a hundred, nor 
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward. 

ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. 

Nay — ^I am sick of blood ; my aching heart 
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors 
That still have gloom'd the rise of the republic. 

1 should have died before Toulon, when war 
Became the patriot! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Most unworthy wish ! 
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors, 
Would be himself a traitor, were he not 
A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone 
Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate. 
O thou art brave, my brother ! and thine eye 
Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle — 
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity 
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest! 
There is unsoundness in the state — ^To-morrow 
Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre! 

ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. 

Beware ! already do the sections murmur — 
" O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre — 
The tyrant guardian of the country 's/reerfom.'" 

COUTHON. 

'T were folly sure to work great deeds by halves ! 
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart 
Of cold Barrere ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I see the villain in him ! 

ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. 

If he — if all forsake thee— what remains ? 
214 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



205 



ROBKSPIERRE. 

Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul 
And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues ! 
The giant Victories, my counsels form'd, 
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes, 
Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless. 

[Exeunt ccBteri. Manet Couthon. 

COUTHON (solus). 
So we deceive ourselves ! What goodly virtues 
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition ! 
Still, Robespierre ! thou 'It guard thy country's freedom 
To despotize in all the patriot's pomp. 
While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamors, 
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers — blood-stain'd tyrant! 
Yet what is Conscience ? Superstition's dream, 
Making such deep impression on our sleep — 
That long th' awaken'd breast retains its horrors ! 
But he returns — and with him comes Barrere. 

[Exit Couthon. 

Enter Robespierre and Barrere. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

There is no danger but in cowardice. — 
Barrere ! we make the danger, when we fear it. 
We have such force without, as will suspend 
The cold and trembling treachery of these members. 

BARRERE. 

'Twill be a pause of terror. — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

But to whom ? 
Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest. 
Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors ! 
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak ! 
A pause ! — a moment's pause ! — 'T is all their life. 



Yet much they talk — and plausible their speech. 
Couthon's decree has given such powers, that — 



That what ? 



ROBESPIERRE. 
BARRERE. 

The freedom of debate — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Transparent 
They wish to clog the wheels of government. 
Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine 
To bribe them to their duty — English patriots ! 
Are not the congregated clouds of war 
Black all around us ? In our very vitals 
Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion ? 
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings 
Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears 
Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice ? 
Terror ? or secret-sapping gold ? The first 
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it ; 
And to the virtuous patriot render'd light 
By the necessities that gave it birth : 
The other fouls the fount of the republic, 
Making it flow polluted to all ages ; 
Inoculates the state with a slow venom. 
That, once imbibed, must be continued ever. 
Myself incorruptible, I ne'er could bribe them — 
Therefore they hate me. 

BARRERE. 

Are the sections friendly ? 



ROBESPIERRE. 

There are who wish my ruin — but I '11 make thera 
Blush for the crime in blood ! 

BARRERE. 

Nay, but I tell thee, 
Thou art too fond of slaughter — and the right 
(If right it be) workest by most foul means ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Self-centering Fear ! how well thou canst ape Mercy ! 
Too fond of slaughter ! — matchless hypocrite ! 
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died ? 
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming 

streets 
Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'er-wearied 
Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood ? 
And when (0 heavens !) in Lyons' death-red square 
Sick Fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain, 
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day ? 
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors. 
And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder ! Now 
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar. 
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother, 
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of — Mercy ! 

BARRERE. 

prodigality of eloquent anger ! 

Why now I see thou 'rt weak — thy case is desperate ! 
The cool ferocious Robespierre tum'd scolder ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow 
Reserves the whetted dagger for his own. 
Denounced twice — and twice I saved his life ! [Exit. 

BARRERE. 

The sections will support them — there 's the point ! 
No ! he can never weather out the storm — 
Yet he is sudden in revenge — No more ! 

1 must away to Tallien. [Exit, 



SCENE changes to the house of Adelaide. 
Adelaide enters, speaUng to a Servant. 

ADELAIDE. 

Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee ? 
Did Tallien answer, he would soon return ? 

SERVANT. 

He is in the Tuilleries — with him Legendre — 
In deep discourse they seem'd ; as I approach'd. 
He waved his hand as bidding me retire : 
I did not interrupt him. [Returns the letter, 

ADELAIDE. 

Thou didst rightly. 

[Exit Servant. 
this new freedom ! at how dear a price 
We've bought the seeming good ! The peaceful virtues, 
And every blandishment of private life. 
The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment, 
All sacrificed to Liberty's wild riot 
The winged hours, that scatter'd roses round me, 
Languid and sad drag their slow course along. 
And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings. 
But I will steal away these anxious thoughts 
By the soft languishment of warbled airs. 
If haply melodies may lull the sense 
Of sorrow for a while. 

215 



506 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



{Soft Music). 
Enter Tallien. 



Music, my love ? O breathe again that air ! 

Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the weary soul 

Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening 

That plays aroimd. the sick man's throbbing temples. 

SONG. 

Tell me, on what holy ground 
May domestic peace be found ? 
Halcyon daughter of the skies, 
Far on fearful wing she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptred state, 
From the rebel's noisy hate. 

In a cottaged vale she dwells, 
List'ning to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honor's meeker mien. 
Love, the fire of pleasing fears, 
Sorrow smiling through her tears ; 
And, conscious of the past employ. 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 

TALLIEN. 

I thank thee, Adelaide ! 'twas sweet, though mournful. 
But why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan ? 
Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream 
That sighs away the soul in fond despairing, 
While Sorrow sad, like the dank willow near her. 
Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye. 

ADELAIDE. 

Ah ! rather let me ask what mystery lowers 

On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong — 

Thy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil ? 

TALLIEN. 

Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt? 
Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers ? 
It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses 
Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams 
Threaten the assassin hand of Robespierre. 
He dies ! — ^nor has the plot escaped his fears. 

ADELAIDE. 

Yet — ^yet — be cautious ! much I fear the Commune — 
The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his 
Fast link'd in close indissoluble union. 
The Pale Convention — 

TALLIEN. 

Hate him as they fear him, 
Impatient of the chain, resolved and ready. 

ADELAIDE. 

Th' enthusiast mob. Confusion's lawless sons — 

TALLIEN. 

They are aweary of his stern morality, 
The fair-mask'd offspring of ferocious pride. 
The sections too support the delegates : 
All — all is ours ! e'en now the vital air 
Of Liberty, condensed awhile, is bursting 
(Force irresistible !) from its compressure — 
To shatter the arch-chemist in the explosion ! 



Enter Billaud Varennes and Bourdon l'Oise. 
[Adelaide retires. 
bourdon l'oise. 
Tallien ! was this a time for amorous conference j 
Henriot, the tyrant's most devoted creature. 
Marshals the force of Paris : the fierce club. 
With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim 
Have sworn to make the guillotine in blood 
Float on the scaffold. — But who comes here ? 

Enter Barrere abruptly. 
barrere. 
Say, are ye friends to Freedom ? I am her's ! 
Let us, forgetful of all common feuds. 
Rally around her shrine ! E'en now the tyrant 
Concerts a plan of instant massacre ! 

billaud varennes. 
Away to the Convention ! with that voice 
So oft the herald of glad victory, 
Rouse their fallen spirits, thunder in their ears 
The names of tyrant, plunderer, assassin ! 
The violent workings of my soul within 
Anticipate the monster's blood ? 

[Cry from the street of— "No Tyrant ! Down with 
the Tyrant .'" 

TALLIEN. 

Hear ye that outcry ?— If the trembling members 
Even for a moment hold his fate suspended, 
I swear, by the holy poniard that stabb'd Caesar, 
This dagger probes his heart ! 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT XL 

SCENE.— TAe Convention. 

ROBESPIERRE (mounts the Tribune). 
Once more befits it that the voice of Truth, 
Fearless in innocence, though leaguer'd round 
By Envy and her hateful brood of hell. 
Be heard amid this hall ; once more befits 
The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft 
Has pierced through faction's veil, to flash on crimes 
Of deadliest import. Mouldering in the grave 
Sleeps Capet's caitiff corse ; my daring hand 
Levell'd to earth his blood-cemented throne. 
My voice declared his guilt, and stirr'd up France 
To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave 
Where sleep the Girondists, detested band • 
Long with the show of freedom they abused 
Her ardent sons. Long time the well-turn'd phrase. 
The high-fraught sentence, and the lofty tone 
Of declamation, thunder'd in this hall, 
Till reason 'midst a labyrinth of words 
Perplex'd, in silence seem'd to yield assent. 
I durst oppose. Soul of my honor'd friend ! 
Spirit of Marat, upon thee I call — 
Thou know'st me faithful, know'st with what warm 

zeal 
I urged the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask 
From Faction's deadly visage, and destroy'd 
Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurl'd down 
Hebert and Rousin, and the villain friends 
Of Danton, foul apostate ! those, who long 
Mask'd Treason's form in Liberty's fair garb, 

216 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



207 



Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy 

Omnipotence ! but I, it seems, am false ! 

I am a traitor too ! I — Robespierre ! 

I_at whose name the dastard despot brood 

Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them! 

Who dares accuse me ? who shall dare belie 

My spotless name ? Speak, ye accomplice band, 

Of what am I accused ? of what strange crime 

Is Maximilian Robespierre accused, 

That through this hall the buzz of discontent 

Should murmur ? who shall speak ? 

BILLAUD VARENNES. 

O patriot tongue, 
Belying the foul heart ! Who was it urged, 
Friendly to tyrants, that accurst decree 
Whose influence, brooding o'er this hallow'd hall, 
Has chill'd each tongue to silence. Who destroy'd 
The freedom of debate, and carried through 
The fatal law, that doom'd the delegates, 
Unheard before their equals, to the bar 
Where cruelty sat throned, and murder reign'd 
With her Dumas coequal ? Say — thou man 
Of mighty eloquence, whose law was that ? 

COUTHON. 

That law was mine. I urged it — I proposed — 
The voice of France assembled in her sons 
Assented, though the tame and timid voice 
Of traitors murmur'd. I advised that law — 
I justify it. It was wise and good. 

BARRERE. 

Oh, wondrous wise, and most convenient too ! 
I have long mark'd thee, Robespierre — and now 
Proclaim thee traitor — tyrant ! 

[Loud applauses. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

It is well. 
I am a traitor ! oh, that I had fallen 
When Regnault lifted high the murderous knife j 
Regnault, the instrument belike of those 
Who now themselves would fain assassinate, 
And legalize their murders. I stand here 
An isolated patriot — hemm'd around 
By faction's noisy pack ; beset and bay'd 
By the foul hell-hounds who know no escape 
From Justice' outstretch'd arm, but by the force 
That pierces through her breast. 

[Murmurs, and shouts of — Down with the tyrant ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Nay, but I will be heard. There was a time, 
When Robespierre began, the loud applauses 
Of honest patriots drown'd the honest sound. 
But times are changed, and villany prevails. 

COLLOT d'hERBOIS. 

No — villany shall fall. France could not brook 
A monarch's sway — sounds the dictator's name 
More soothing to her ear ? 

BOURDON l'oISE. 

Rattle her chains 
More musically now than when the hand 
Of Brissot forged her fetters, or the crew 
Of Herbert thundered out their blasphemies, 
And Danton talk'd of virtue ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Oh, that Brissot 
Were here again to thunder in this hall. 
That Herbert lived, and Danton's giant form 
2C 



Scowl'd once again defiance ! so my soul 
Might cope with worthy foes. 

People of France, 
Hear me ! Beneath the vengeance of the law. 
Traitors have perish'd countless ; more survive : 
The hydra-headed faction lifts anew 
Her daring front, and fruitful from her wounds, 
Cautious from past defeats, contrives new wiles 
Against the sons of Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Freedom lives! 
Oppression falls — for France has felt her chains. 
Has burst them too. Who traitor-like stept forth 
Amid the hall of Jacobins to save 
Camille Desmoulins, and the venal wretch 
D'Eglantine ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I did — for I thought them honest. 
And Heaven forefend that vengeance ere should strike, 
Ere justice doom'd the blow. 

BARRERE. 

Traitor, thou didst. 
Yes, the accomplice of their dark designs, 
Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm 
Lower'd at safe distance. When the clouds frown'd 

darker, 
Fear'd for yourself and left them to their fate. 
Oh, I have mark'd thee long, and through the veil 
Seen thy foul projects. Yes, ambitious man, 
Self-will'd dictator o'er the realm of France, 
The vengeance thou hast plann'd for patriots 
Falls on thy head. Look how thy brother's deeds 
Dishonor thine ! He the firm patriot, 
Thou the foul parricide of Liberty ! 

ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. 

Barrere — attempt not meanly to divide 
Me from my brother. I partake his guilt, 
For I partake his virtue. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Brother, by my soul 
More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus 
With me thou darest to tread the dangerous path 
Of virtue, than that Nature twined her cords 
Of kindred round us. 

BARRERE. 

Yes, allied in guilt. 
Even as in blood ye are. Oh, thou worst wretch. 
Thou worse than Sylla ! hast thou not proscribed. 
Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughter'd. 
Each patriot representative of France ? 

BOURDON L'oISE. 

Was not the younger Caesar too to reign 
O'er all our valiant armies in the south. 
And still continue there his merchant wiles ? 

ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. 

His merchant wiles! Oh, grant me patience. Heaven! 
Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back 
Toulon, when proudly on her captive towers 
Waved high the English flag ? or fought I then 
With merchant wiles, when sword in hand I led 
Your troops to conquest ? Fought I merchant-like, 
Or barter'd I for victory, when death 
Strode o'er the reeking streets with giant stride. 
And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smiled 
Amid the bloody banquet ? when appall'd. 
The hireling sons of England spread the sail 
217 



208 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of safety, fought I like a merchant then ? 
Oh, patience ! patience ! 

BOURDON l'oISE. 

How this younger tyrant 
Mouths out defiance to us ! even so 
He had led on the armies of the south, 
Till once again the plains of France were drench'd 
With her best blood. 

COLLOT d'hERBOIS. 

Till, once again display'd, 
Lyons' sad tragedy had call'd me forth 
The minister of wrath, whilst slaughter by 
Had bathed in human blood. 

DUBOIS CRANCE. 

No wonder, friend, 
That we are traitors — that our heads must fall 
Beneath the ax of death ! When Caesar-like 
Reigns Robespierre, 'tis wisely done to doom 
The fall of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man. 
Hast thou not parcell'd out deluded France, 
As it had been some province won in fight, 
Between your curst triumvirate ? You, Couthon, 
Go with my brother to the southern plains 5 
St-Just, be yours the army of the north ; 
Meantime I rule at Paris. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Matchless knave ! 
What — not one blush of conscience on thy cheek — 
Not one poor blush of truth ! Most likely tale ! 
That I who ruin'd Brissot's towering hopes, 
I who discover'd Hebert's impious wiles. 
And sharp'd for Danton's recreant neck the ax, 
Should now be traitor ! had I been so minded. 
Think ye I had destroy'd the very men 
Whose plots resembled mine ? Bring forth your proofs 
Of this deep treason. Tell me in whose breast 
Found ye the fatal scroll ? or tell me rather 
Who forged the shameless falsehood ? 

COLLOT D'hERBOIS. 

Ask you proofs ? 
Robespierre, what proofs were ask'd when Brissot died? 

LEGENDRE. 

What proofs adduced you when the Danton dieji ? 
When at the imminent peril of my life 
I rose, and fearless of thy frowning brow, 
Proclaim'd him guiltless ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I remember well 
The fatal day. I do repent me much 
That I kill'd Caesar and spared Antony. 
But I have been too lenient. I have spared 
The stream of blood, and now my own must flow 
To fill the current. 

[Loud applauses. 
Triumph not too soon. 
Justice may yet be victor. 

Enter St-Just, and mounts the Trihune. 

ST-JUST. 

I come from the committee — charged to speak 
Of matters of high import. I omit 
Their orders. Representatives of France, 
Boldly in his own person speaks St-Just 
What his own heart shall dictate. 



TALLIEN. 



Hear ye this. 



Insulted delegates of France ? St-Just 

From your committee comes — comes charged to speak 

Of matters of high import — yet omits 

Their orders ! Representatives of France, 

That bold man I denounce, who disobeys 

The nation's orders. — I denounce S^Just 

[Loud applauses. 

ST-JUST. 

Hear me! [Violent 

ROBESPIERRE. 

He shall be heard ! 

BOURDON l'oISE. 

Must we contaminate this sacred hall 
With the foul breath of treason ? 



COLLOT D'HERBOIS. 



Hence with him to the bar. 



Drag him away ! 



COUTHON. 

Oh, just proceedings ! 
Robespierre prevented liberty of speech — 
And Robespierre is a tyrant ! Tallien reigns, 
He dreads to hear the voice of innocence — 
And St-Just must be silent ! 

LEGENDRE. 

Heed we well 
That justice guide our actions. No light import 
Attends this day. I move St-Just be heard. 

FRERON. 

Inviolate be the sacred right of man. 
The freedom of debate. 

[Violent applause 

ST-JUST. 

I may be heard, then ! much the times are changed 

When St-Just thanks this hall for hearing him. 

Robespierre is call'd a tyrant. Men of France, 

Judge not too soon. By popular discontent 

Was Aristides driven into exile. 

Was Phocion murder'd ? Ere ye dare pronounce 

Robespierre is guilty, it befits ye well, 

Consider who accuse him. Tallien, 

Bourdon of Oise — the very men denounced. 

For their dark intrigues disturb'd the plan 

Of government. Legendre, the sworn friend 

Of Danton, fall'n apostate. Dubois Crance, 

He who at Lyons spared the royalists — 

Collot d'Herbois — 

BOURDON L'oISE. 

What — shall the traitor rear 
His Tiead amid our tribune — and blaspheme 
Each patriot ? shall the hireling slave of faction— 

ST-JUST. 

I am of no faction. I contend 
Against all factions. 

TALLIEN. 

I espouse the cause 
Of truth. Robespierre on yester-morn pronounced 
Upon his own authority a report. 
To-day St-Just comes down. St-Just neglects 
What the committee orders, and harangues 
From his own will. O citizens of France, 
I weep for you — I weep for my poor country-— 
I tremble for the cause of Liberty, 
When individuals shall assume the sway, 
And with more insolence than kingly pride 
Rule the republic. 

218 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



209 



BILLAUD VAEENNES. 

Shudder, ye representatives of France, 
Shudder with horror. Henriot commands 
The marshall'd force of Paris — Henriot, 
Foul parricide — the sworn ally of Hebert, 
Denounced by all — upheld by Robespierre. 
Who spared La ^''allette ? who promoted hira, 
Stain'd with the deep dye of nobility ? 
Who to an ex-peer gave the high command ? 
Who screen'd from justice the rapacious thief? 
Who cast in chains the friends of Liberty ? 
Robespierre, the self styled patriot Robespierre — 
Robespierre, allied with villain Daubigne — 
Robespierre, the foul arch-tyrant Robespierre. 

BOURDON L'OISE. 

He talks of virtue — of morality — 
Consistent patriot ! he, Daubigne's friend ! 
Henriot's supporter virtuous ! Preach of virtue, 
Yet league with villains, for with Robespierre 
Villains alone ally. Thou art a tyrant ! 
I style thee tyrant, Robespierre ! 

[Loud applauses. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Take back the name, ye citizens of France — 

[Violent clamor. Cries of — Down vnth the Tyrant! 



Oppression falls. The traitor stands appall'd — 

Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul — 

He hears assembled France denounce his crimes ! 

He sees the mask torn from his secret sins — 

He trembles on the precipice of fate. 

Fall'n guilty tyrant ! murder'd by thy rage. 

How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd 

Fair Freedom's altar ! Sylla-like, thy hand 

Mark'd down the virtues, that, thy foes removed, 

Perpetual Dictator thou mightst reign. 

And tyrannize o'er France, and call it freedom ! 

Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd 

His fearful wiles — success embolden'd sin — 

And his stretch'd arm had grasp'd the diadem 

Ere now, but that the coward's heart recoil'd. 

Lest France awaked, should rouse her from her dream. 

And call aloud for vengeance. He, like Caesar, 

With rapid step urged on his bold career, 

Even to the summit of ambitious power. 

And deem'd the name of King alone was wanting. 

Was it for this we hurl'd proud Capet down ? 

Is it for this we wage eternal war 

Against the tyrant horde of murderers. 

The crown'd cockatrices whose foul venom 

Infects all Europe ? was it then for this 

We swore to guard our liberty with life. 

That Robespierre should reign ? the spirit of freedom 

Is not yet sunk so low. The glowing flame 

That animates each honest Frenchman's heart 

Not yet extinguish'd. I invoke thy shade, 

Immortal Brutus ! I too wear a dagger ; 

And if the representatives of France, 

Through fear or favor, should delay the sword 

Of justice, Tallien emulates thy virtues ; 

Tallien, like Brutus, lifts the avenging arm ; 

Tallien shall save his country. 

[ Violent appla.uses. 

BILLAUD VARENNES. 

I demand 



The arrest of the traitors. Memorable 
Will be this day for France. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Yes ! memorable 
This day will be for France for villains triumph. 

LEBAS. 

I will not share in this day's damning guilt. 
Condemn me too. 

[Great cry — Down with the Tyrants! 
(TAe^woRoBESPiERREs, CouthoNjSt-Justc/i^Lebas 



ACT III. 

Scene continues. 

COLLOT D'hERBOIS. 

Caesar is fallen ! The baneful tree of Java, 
Whose death-distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew. 
Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell, 
The austere, the self-denying Robespierre, 
Even in this hall, where once with terror mute 
We listen'd to the hypocrite's harangues, 
Has heard his doom. 

BILLAUD VARENNES. 

Yet must we not suppose 
The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling 
Henriot, the daring desperate Henriot 
Commands the force of Paris. I denounce him. 

FRERON.. 

I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris. 
Enter Dubois Crance. 

DUBOIS GRANGE. 

Robespierre is rescued. Henriot at the head 
Of the arm'd force has rescued the fierce tyrant. 

COLLOT D'HERBOIS. 

Ring the tocsin — call all the citizens 

To save their country — never yet has Paris 

Forsook the representatives of France. 

TALLIEN. 

It is the hour of danger. I propose 
This sitting be made permanent. 

[Loud applauses ~ 

COLLOT d'hERBOIS. 

The National Convention shall remain 
Firm at its post. 

Enter a Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

Robespierre has reach'd the Commune. They espouse 
The tyrant's cause. St-Just is up in arms ! 
St-Just — the young ambitious bold St-Just 
Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon 
Thirsts for your blood. 

[Tocsin nngs. 

TALLIEN. 

These tyrants are in arms against the law : 
Outlaw the rebels. 

Enter Merlin of Douay. 

MERLIN. 

Health to the representatives of France t 
I past this moment through the armed force— 
They ask'd my name — and when they heard a delegate. 
Swore I was not the friend of France. 
219 



210 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



COLLOT d'HERBOIS. 

The tyrants threaten us, as when they tum'd 
The cannon's mouth on Brissot. 

Enl,er another Messenger. 

SECOND MESSENGER. 

Vivier harangues the Jacobins — the club 
Espouse the cause of Robespierre. 

Enter another Messenger. 

THIRD messenger. 

All 's lost — the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads 

The soldiers to his aid. Already I hear 

The rattling cannon destined to surround 
This sacred hall. 

TALLIEN. 

Why, we will die like men then ; 
The representatives of France dare death, 
When duty steels their bosoms. 

{Lovd applauses, 

TALLIEN {addressing the galleries). 
Citizens ! 
France is insulted in her delegates — 
The majesty of the republic is insulted — 
Tyrants are up in arms. An armed force 
Threats the Convention. The Convention swears 
To die, or save the country ! 

[ Violent applauses from the galleries. 

CITIZEN {from above). 

We too swear 
To die, or save the country. Follow me. 

[All the men quit the galleries. 

Enter another Messenger. 

FOURTH messenger. 

Henriot is taken! — 

[Lovd applauses. 
Henriot is taken. Three of your brave soldiers 
Swore they would seize the rebel slave of tyrants. 
Or perish in the attempt. As he patroll'd 
The streets of Paris, stirring up the mob. 
They seized him. 

[Aj^lauses. 

BILLAUD VARENNES. 

Let the names of these brave men 
Live to the future day. 

Enter Bourdon l'Oise, sword in hand. 

BOURDON L'OISE, 

I have clear'd the Commune. 

[Applauses. 
Through the throng I rush'd, 
Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade 
Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels 
Gave way. I met the soldiery — I spake 
Of the dictator's crimes — of patriots chain'd 
In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage — 
Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power. 
I spake of Liberty. Their honest hearts 
Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst forth, 
" Live the Convention — Down with Robespierre !" 

[Applauses. 
[Shouts from without — Dovm with the Tyrant ! 

TALLIEN. 

I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds, 

France shall be saved ! her generous sons, attached 



To principles, not persons, spura the idol 

They worshipp'd once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall 

As Capet fell ! Oh ! never let us deem 

That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne, 

That the almighty people who have broke 

On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain. 

Will court again their fetters ! easier were it 

To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base, 

Than force the bonds of slavery upon men 

Determined to be free ! 

[Applauses, 

Enter Legendre, a pistol in one hand, keys in the 
other. 

legendre {flinging down the keys). 
So — let the mutinous Jacobins meet now 
In the open air. 

[Lovd applauses. 
A factious turbulent party 
Lording it o'er the state since Danton died, 
And with him the Cordeliers. — A hireling band 
Of loud-tongued orators controll'd the club, 
And bade them bow the knee to Robespierre. 
Vivier has 'scaped me. Curse his coward heart— 
This fate-fraught tube of Justice in my hand, 
I rush'd into the hall. He mark'd mine eye 
That beam'd its patriot anger, and flash'd full 
With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng 
He mingled. I pursued — but staid my hand. 
Lest haply I might shed the innocent blood. 

[Applauses, 

FR^RON. 

They took from me my ticket of admission — 
Expell'd me from their sittings. — Now, forsooth. 
Humbled and trembling re-insert my name ; 
But Freron enters not the club again 
Till it be purged of guilt — till, purified 
Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men 
May breathe the air in safety. 

[Shouts from vnthout. 

BARRERE. 

What means this uproar ? if the t5n'ant band 
Should gain the people once again to rise — 
We are as dead ! 

TALLIEN. 

And wherefore fear we death ? 
Did Brutus fear it ? or the Grecian friends 
Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword, 
And died triumphant ? Caesar should fear death ; 
Brutus must scorn the bugbear. 

Shouts from without. Live the Convention — Down 
with the Tyrants! 



TALLIEN. 



Hark! again 



The sounds of honest Freedom ! 

Enter Deputies from the Sections. 

CITIZEN. 

Citizens ! representatives of France ! 
Hold on your steady course. The men of Paris 
Espouse your cause. The men of Paris swear 
TTiey will defend the delegates of Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Hear ye this, Colleagues? hear ye this, my brethren? 
And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts ? 
My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen 



THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. 



211 



The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke ; 
I have, as much as Hes in mine own arm, 
Hurl'd down the usurper. — Come death when it will, 
I have lived long enough. 

[Shouts without. 

BARRERE. 

Hark ! how the noise increases ! through the gloom 
Of the still evening — harbinger of death, 
Rings the tocsin ! the dreadful generale 
Thunders through Paris — 

[Cry without — Down with the Tyrant ! 

Enter Lecointbe. 

LECOINTRE. 

So may eternal justice blast the foes 
Of France ! so perish all the tyrant brood, 
As Robespierre has perish'd ! Citizens, 
Cassar is taken. 

[Loud and repeated applauses. 
I marvel not, that with such fearless front, 
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye 
Scowl'd round the hall defiance. He relied 
On Henriot's aid — the Commune's villain friendship, 
And Henriot's boughten succors. Ye have heard 
How Henriot rescued him — how wdth open arms 
The Commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant — 
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier 
Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost — 
The representatives of France had perish'd — 
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm 
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit 
Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd 
*' To arms" in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice 
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins 
Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled — 
They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round— we 

call'd 
For vengeance ! Long time, obstinate in despair. 
With knives they hack'd around them. Till foreboding 
The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry 
Of joyful thousands haihng their destruction, 
Each sought by suicide to escape the dread 
Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window 
Leapt the younger Robespierre, but his fractured limb 
Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator 
Plunged often the keen knife in his dark breast, 
Yet impotent to die. He lives all mangled 
By his own tremulous hand ! All gash'd and gored. 
He lives to taste the bitterness of Death. 
Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon, 
The fierce St-Just, even now attend their tyrant 
To fall beneath the ax, I saw the torches 
Flash on their visages a dreadful light — 
I saw them whilst the black blood roU'd adown 
Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye 
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived, 
Fearless of fate ! 

[Lotfd and Treated applauses. 



BARRERE {mounts the Tribune). 
For ever hallow'd be this glorious day. 
When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain. 
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant, 
Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne by the arm 
Of the almighty people, meets the death 
He plann'd for thousands. Oh ! my sickening heart 
Has sunk within me, when the various woes 
Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain 
In ghastly numbers — when assembled hordes, 
Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power, 
Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets, 
And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with 

blood 
The reeking fields of Flanders.— When within, 
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth 
Of treason ; and oppression, giant form, 
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative 
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day, 
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced 
The doom of injured France, has Faction rear'd 
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd 
Of mercy — the uxorious dotard Roland, 
The woman-go vern'd Roland durst aspire 
To govern France ; and Petion talk'd of virtue, 
And Verg-niaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue 
Of some soft Syren, wooed us to destruction. 
We triumph'd over these. On the same scaflfbid 
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood. 
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons, 
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet, 
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand 
Hurl'd down the altars of the liAdng God, 
With all the infidel's intolerance. 
The last worst traitor triumph'd — triumph'd long, 
Secured by matchless villany. By turns 
Defending and deserting each accomplice, 
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil 
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck 
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death 
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade. 
He wove the web of treachery. He caught 
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence, 
His cool ferocity, that persuaded murder. 
Even whilst it spake of mercy ! — Never, never 
Shall this regenerated country wear 
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail. 
And with worse fury urge this new crusade 
Than savages have known ; though the leagued 

despots 
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour 
The accumulated mass upon our coasts. 
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise. 
And hke the rock amid surrounding waves 
Repel the rushing ocean. — She shall wield 
The thunderbolt of vengeance — she shall blast 
The despot's pride, and liberate the world ! 

221 



212 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



PROSE IN RHX'ME : OR EPIGRAMS, MORALITIES, AND THINGS WITHOUT A NAME 



"Epuf titi "XaXriSpog eraipos. 



In many ways does the full heart reveal 

The presence of the love it would conceal ; 

But in far more th' estranged heart lets know 

The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show. 



LO\'E* 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the hghts of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leant against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and Usten'd to my lay, 
Amid the Ungering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I pky'd a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 



*TbiB piece may be found, as originally published, under an- 
other title, at page 28. 



She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shades, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land! 

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees*. 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain. 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

His dying words — but when I reach'd 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An imdistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherish'd long ! 
223 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



213 



She wept with pity and delight, 
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame : 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. . 

Her bosom heaved — she slept aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepp'd — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms. 
She press'd me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calin'd her fears, and jsh&^was calm,^ 
-At]4i0Wsii^^do^e-(^''vwgkx 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE, 
THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE. 



Unchanged within to see all changed without, 

Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 

Yet why at others' warnings shouldst thou fret ? 

Then only mightst thou feel a just regret, 

Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 

In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 

O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 

While, and on whom, thou mayest — shine on! nor heed 

Whether the object by reflected light 

Return thy radiance or absorb it quite ; 

And though thou no test from thy safe recess 5/' 

Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, 

Love them for what they are : nor love them less, 

Because to Uiee they are not what they were. 



PHANTOM OR FACT? 



A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. 



AUTHOR. 

A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
That I uimethe the fancy might control, 
'T was my own spirit newly come from heaven 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and yet- 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook ! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing Look ! 
'T was all another, feature, look, and frame, 
And still, methought, I knew it was the same ! 

FRIEND. 

.This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 
Is 't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 



Or rather say at once, within what space 

Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 

AUTHOR. 

Call it a moments work (and such it seems). 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams; 
But say, that years matured the silent strife. 
And 'tis a record from the dream of Life. 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827. 

All Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair — 
The bees are stirring — Birds are on the wdng — 
And Winter, slumbering in the open air. 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing. 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
And hope without an object cannot live. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying. 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when ! 
Ah for the change 'twixt now and then! 
This breathing house not built with hands. 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flash'd along: — 
Like those trim skifli, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of vdnd or tide ! 
Nought cared this body for wind or weather, 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O the joys, that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 
Which tells me. Youth 's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that thou and I were one, 

1 '11 think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd :- 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

I see these locks in silvery slips,' 
This drooping gait, this alter'd size : 
223 



214 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That youth and I are house-mates still. 



A DAY DREAM. 

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruin'd hut, 

And thee, and me, and Mary there. 

Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruin'd shed, 

And that and summer well agree : 
And lo ! where Maiy leans her head, 
Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow. 

'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright, 

The stars are round the crescent moon ! 
And now it is a dark warm night, 
The balmiest of the month of June ! 
A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet 
fountain. 

O ever — ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Asra ! love I thee ! 
This brooding warmth across my breast. 
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me ! 
Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither. 
But in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 
By the still dancing fire-flames made; 

And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 

1 dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel 

thee! 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! 
But let me check this tender lay, 

Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming. 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women ! 



TO A LADY, 

OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEN 
HAVE NO SOULS. 

Nay, dearest Arma ! why so grave ? 

I said, you had no soul, 'tis true ! 
For what you are you cannot have: 

'Tis I, that have one since I first had you! 



I HAVE heard of reasons manifold 
Why Love must needs be blind, 

But this the best of all I hold — 
His eyes are in his mind. 



What outward form and feature are 
He guesseth but in part ; 

But what within is good and fair 
He seeth with the heart. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS 
OF BERENGARIUS. 

OB. ANNO DOM. 1088. 

No more 'twdxt conscience staggering and the Pope, 
Soon shall I now before my God appear, 
By him to be acquitted, as I hope ; 
By him to be condemned, as I fear, 

REFLECTIONS ON THE ABOVE. 

Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed, 

Be of good cheer, meek soul ! I would have said . 

I see a hope spring from that humble fear. 

All are not strong alike through storms to steer 

Right onward. What though dread of threaten'd 

death 
And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath 
Inconstant to the truth vdthin thy heart ? 
That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice 

didst start. 
Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife. 
Or not so vital as to claim thy life : 
And myriads had reach'd Heaven, who never knew 
Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true ! 

Ye who, secure 'mid trophies not your own. 
Judge him who won them when he stood alone. 
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — 
O first the age, and then the man compare ! 
That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
No host of friends with kindred zeal did bum! 
No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 
He only disenchanted from the spell. 
Like the weak worm that gems the starless mght. 
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light : 
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey ? 

The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye 
Hath lit each dew-^rop on our trimmer lawn ! 
Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry 
The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn ! 
Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noon to scorn 
The mists and painted vapors of our Morn. 



THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 

From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A-walking the Devil is gone, 
To visit his little snug farm of the earth, 

And see how his stock went on. 

Over the hill and over the dale. 

And he went over the plain. 
And backwards and forwards he swish'd his long tail 

As a gentleman swishes his cane. 

And how then was the Devil drest ? 

Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : 
His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, 

And there was a hole where the tail came through 

224 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



215 



He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper 

On a dung-heap beside his stable, 
And the Devil smiled, for it put Mm in mind 

Of Cain and his brother, Abel. 

A PoTHECARY on a white horse 

Rode by on his vocations, 
And the Devil thought of his old Friend 

Death in the Revelations. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ! 
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

He went into a rich bookseller's shop, 
Quoth he ! we are both of one college ; 

For I myself sate like a cormorant once 
Fast by the tree of knowledge.* 

Down the river there plied with wind and tide, 

A pig, with vast celerity ; 
And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while, 
It cut its own throat There ! quoth he, with a smile, 

Goes " England's commercial prosperity." 

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields, he saw 

A solitary cell, 
And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in Hell. 

» * * « * » 



■'s burning face 



General — 

He saw with consternation, 
And back to Hell his way did he take. 
For the Devil thought, by a slight mistake. 

It was general conflagration. 



* And all amid them stood the Tree of Life 
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
Of vegetable gold (query paper money?) ; and next to Life 
Our Death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by. — 



So clomb this first grand thief 

Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 
Sat like a cormorant. — Par. Lost, IV. 

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various 
readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to 
find it noted, that for " Life" Cod. quid habent, " Trade." 
Though indeed the trade, i. e. the bibliopoiic, so called, 
#car' e^d^rjv, may be regarded as Life sansu eminentiori : a 
suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, 
who on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, 
country houses, etc. of the trade, exclaimed, " Ay ! that 's 
what I call Life now!" — This "Life, owr Death," is thus 
happily contrasted with the fruits of Authorship. — Sic nos non 
nobis niellificamus Apes. 

Of this poem, with which the Fire, Famine and Slaughter 
first appeared in the Morning Post, the three first stanzas, which 
are worth all the rest, and the ninth, were dictated by Mr. 
Southey. Between flie ninth and the concluding stanza, two or 
three are omitted as grounded on subjects that have lost their 
interest— and for better reasons. 

If any one should ask, who General meant, the Author 

begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a red-faced per- 
son in a dream whom by the dress he took for a General ; but 
2 D 



CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 

Since all, that beat about in Nature's range. 
Or veer or vanish, why shouldst thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change — 

yearning thought, that livest but in the brain ? 
Call to the hours, that in the distance play. 
The fairy people of the future day 

Fond THOUGHT ! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath. 
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 
Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, 
She is not thou, and only thou art she. 
Still, still as though some dear embodied good. 
Some living love before my eyes fhere stood. 
With answering look a ready ear to lend, 

1 mourn to thee and say — "Ah! loveliest friend! 
That this the meed of all my toils might be. 

To have a home, an English home and thee ! 
Vain repetition ! Home and thou art one. 
The peacefull'st cot the moon shall shine upon, 
Lull'd by the thrush and waken'd by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalmed Bark, 
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 

And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze. 
Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 
An imaget with a glory round its head ; 
The enamour'd rustic worships its fair hues. 
Nor knows, he makes the shadow he pursues ! 



THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. 

Ere the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no 
No question was ask'd me — it could not be so ! 
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try. 
And to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? to die. 

nature's answer. 
Is't return'd as 'twas sent? Is 't no worse for the wear? 
Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you 

were! 
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, 
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. 
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ? 
Make out the Invent'ry ; inspect, compare ! 
Then die — if die you dare ! 



he might have been mistaken, and most certainly he did not 
hear any names mentioned. In simple verity, the Author never 
meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a concluding 
stanza to his doggerel. 

t This phenomenon, which the Author has himself expe- 
rienced, and of which the reader may find a description in one 
of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Trans- 
actions, is applied figuratively in the following passage of the 
.^ids to Reflection: 

"Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of music 
on different characters, holds equally true of Genius : as many 
as are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. 
The beholder either recognizes it as a projected form of his own 
Being, that moves before him with a Olory round its head, or 
recoils from it as a spectre." — Aids to Reflection, p. 220. 
225 



216 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY 
DATE-TREE. 



A LAMENT. 



I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either 
in one of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some 
other compilation from the uninspired Hebrew Writers, an 
Apologue or Rabbinical Tradition to the following purpose: 

While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, 
and the last words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's 
ear, the guileful false serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from 
the beginning, presumptuously took on himself the character 
of advocate or mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, 
exclaimed: "Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so! for the Man 
was the least in fault. Rather let the Woman return at once 
to the dust, and let Adam remain in this thy Paradise." And 
the word of the Most High answered Satan: " The tender 
mercies of the wicked are cruel. Treacherous Fiend ! if with 
guilt like thine, it had been possible for thee to have the heart 
of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a human soul for its 
counterpart, the sentence, which thou now counsellest, should 
have been inflicted on thyself." 



[The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact men 
tioned by LinnEeus, of a Date- tree in a nobleman's garden, 
which year after year had put forth a full show of blossoms, 
but never produced fruit, till a branch from a Date-tree had 
been conveyed from a distance of some hundred leagues. 
The first leaf of the MS. from which the poem has been 
transcribed, and which contained the two or three introduc- 
tory stanzas, is wanting : and the author has in vain taxed 
his memory to repair the loss. But a rude draught of the 
poem contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader 
is requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not impossi- 
ble, that some congenial spirit, whose years do not exceed 
those of the author at the time the poem was written, may 
find a pleasure in restoring the Lament to its original integ- 
rity by a reduction of the thoughts to the requisite Metre. — 

S. T.C. 



Or call my destiny niggard ? O no ! no ! 
It is her largeness, and her overflow, 
Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 



For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 

But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 

Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth stiart 

In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 

Beloved! 'tis not thine; thou art not there! 

Then melts the bubble into idle air. 

And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 



The mother with anticipated glee 
Smiles o'er the child, that standing by her chair, 
And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee, 
Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 
To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight 
She hears her own voice with a new delight ; 
And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes 
aright, 



Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 

But should disease or chance the darling take, 

What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 

Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 

Dear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee 

Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 

Why was I made for love, and love denied to me ? 



L 

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the moun- 
tain peaks are the Thrones of Frost, through the 
absence of objects to reflect the rays. " What no 
one with us shares, seems scarce our own." The 
presence of a one. 

The best beloved, who loveth me the best, 
is for the heart, what the supporting air from within 
is for the hollow globe with its suspended car. De- 
prive it of this, and all without, that would have 
buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes 
a burthen, and crushes it into flatness. 

2. 
The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, 
and the fairer and lovelier the object presented to the 
sense ; the more exquisite the individual's capacity 
of joy, and the more ample his means and opportu- 
nities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he feel 
the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial be- 
comes the feast spread around him. What matters 
it, whether in fact the viands and the ministering 
graces are shadowy or real, to him who has not 
hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them ? 

3. 
Imagination ; honorable Aims ; 
Free Commune with the choir that cannot die ; 
Science and Song ; Dehght in little things, 
The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 
Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky. 
With all their voices — dare I accuse 
My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 



FANCY IN NUBIBUS, 

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. 

O! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, 
To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gor- 
geous land! 

Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight. 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 

By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odvssey 

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 



THE TWO FOUNTS. 

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY, 
WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE AT- 
TACK OF PAIN. 

'T WAS my last waking thought, how it could be 
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure 
When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and ho 
Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. 

Methought he fronted me, with peering look 
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game 
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book : 
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame. 
226 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



217 



In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin, 
Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ! 
Tlval to let forth, and this to keep within ! 
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense. 
That Fount alone unlock'd, by no distress 
Choked or turn'd inward, but still issue thence 
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness. 

As on the driving cloud the shiny Bow, 
That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 
'Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below 
Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright ; 

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers. 
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown. 
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 

Even so, Eliza ! on that face of thine, 

On that benignant face, whose look alone 

(The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !) 

Has power to soothe all anguish but thme own. 

A beauty hovers still,-and ne'er takes wing. 
But with a silent charm compels the stern 
And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring 
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
In passion, spleen, or strife) the fount of pain 
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound. 
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain? 

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile. 
Had pass'd : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, 
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream : 

Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, 

sweet, sweet sufferer ! if the case be so, 

1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise ! 

In every look a barbed arrow send. 
On these soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend ! 
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give ! 



WHAT IS LIFE? 

Resembles life what once was held of light, 
Too ample in itself for human sight ? 
An absolute self? an element ungrounded ? 
All that we see, all colors of all shade 

By encroach of darkness made ? 
Is very life by consciousness unbounded ? 
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, 
A war-embrace of wrestling life and death ? 



THE EXCHANGE. 

We pledged our hearts, my love and I, — 
I in my arms the maiden clasping ; 

I could not tell the reason why, 
But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. 



Her father's love she bade me gain ; 

I went and shook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man — in vain ! 

We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 



SONNET, 

COMPOSED BY THE SEASIDE, OCTOBER 1817. 

Oh ! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after sunset, or by moonhght skies. 

To make the shifting clouds be what you please ; 

Or yield the easily persuaded eyes 

To each quaint image issuing from the mould 
Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low. 
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 
'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 

From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous 

land ! 
Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand, 
By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey 
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea ! 



EPIGRAMS. 



I. 

I ask'd my fair, one happy day. 

What I should call her in my lay. 

By what sweet name from Rome, or Greece, 

Nesera, Laura, Daphne, Chloris, 

Carina, Lalage, or Doris, 

Dorimene, or Lucrece ? 

11. 
" Ah," replied my gentle fair ; 
" Dear one, what are names but air ? — 
Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Laura, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage, or Doris, 
Only — only — call me thine .'" 



Sly Belzebub took all occasions 

To try Job's constancy, and patience. 

He took his honor, took his health ; 

He took his children, took his wealth, 

His servants, oxen, horses, cows, — 

But cunning Satan did not take his spouse. 

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, 

And loves to disappoint the devil. 

Had predetermined to restore 

Twofold all he had before ; 

His servants, horses, oxen, cows — 

Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 



Hoarse Msevius reads his hobbling verse 
To all, and at all times ; 
And finds them both divinely smooth, 
His voice as well as rhymes. 

227 



218 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But folks say Msevius is no ass 
But Maevius makes it clear 
That he 's a monster of an 
An ass without an ear ! 



There comes from old Avaro's grave 
A deadly stench — why, sure, they have 
Immured his soul within his Grave ! 



Last Monday all the papers said, 

That Mr. was dead ; 

Why, then, what said the city ? 
The tenth part sadly shook their head, 
And shaking sigh'd, and sighing said, 
" Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!" 

But when the said report was found 
A rumor wholly without ground. 
Why, then, what said the city ? 
The other nine parts shook their head, 
Repeating what the tenth had said, 
" Pity, indeed, 't is pity ! " 



Your poem must eternal be, 
Dear Sir ! — it cannot fail — 
For 'tis incomprehensible. 
And wants both head and tail. 



Swans sing before they die — 'twere no bad thing 
Did certain persons die before they sing. 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



A prose composifion, one not in metre at least, seems vrima 
facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the 
year 1798, near Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, at which place 
(sanctum et amabile nomen •' rich by so many associations and 
recollections) the Author had taken up his residence in order 
to enjoy the society and close neighborhood of a dear and hon 
ored friend, T. Poole. Esq. The work was to have been written 
in concert with another, whose name is too venerable within 
the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connex- 
ion with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small 
distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were sug 
gested by myself, wlio likewise drew out the scheme and th( 
contents for each of the three books or cantoes, of which the 
work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed 
was to have been finished in one night ! My partner undertook 
the first canto : I the second : and whichever had done first, was 
to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed by ; yet 
at this moment I cannot without something more than a smile 
moot the question which of the two things was the more im- 
practicable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another 
man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and 
simple to imitate the Death of Abel 1 Methinks I see his grand 
and noble countenance as at the moment when having dispatch- 
ed my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened 
to him with my manuscript — that look of humorous despond- 
ency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then its 
silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling with the 
sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme — 
which broke up in a laugh : and the Ancient Mariner was writ- 
ten instead. 

Years afterward, however, the draft of the Plan and propo- 
sed Incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favor in the 
eyes of more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic 
work could not but have weighed with me, even though no pa- 
rental partiality had been ttirown into the same scale, as a 
make-weittht: and I determined on commencing anew, and 
composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in 
realiziag this intention, when adverse gules drove my bark off 



the "Fortunate Isles" of the Muses: and then other and more 
momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer an- 
chorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover the 
lines from the Palimpsest tablet of my memory : and I can only 
offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed to 
writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on 
the metre, as a specimen. 

Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 

That leafy twine his only dress ! 

A lovely Boy was plucking fruits. 

By moonlight, in a wilderness. 

The moon was bright, the air was free. 

And fruits and flowers together grew 

On many a shrub and many a tree : 

And all put on a gentle hue, 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate where, they say. 

The night is more beloved than day. 

But who that beauteous Boy beguiled. 

That beauteous Boy, to linger here t 

Alone, by night, a little child, 

In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving Mother near 1 

I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease 
of the " Wanderings of Cain, a poem," — entreating, however, 
my Readers not to think so meanly of my judgment, as to sup- 
pose that I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the pub- 
lication of the following fragment (and I may add, of one oj 
two others in its neighborhood), or its primitive crudity. But 
I should find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself, were I 
to record pro tcedio publico a set of petty mishaps and annoy- 
ances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore 
with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes ita 
appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the 
nearer to the truth he will be. S. T. C. 



CANTO II. 



" A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little further,, 
and we shall come into the open moonlight." Their 
road was through a forest of fir-trees ; at its entrance 
the trees stood at distances from each other, and the 
path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight 
shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to in- 
habit that solitude. But soon the path winded and 
became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes 
speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was 
dark as a cavern. 

" It is dark, O my father !" said Enos ; " but the 
path under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall 
soon come out into the open moonlight." 

" Lead on, my child !" said Cain : " guide me., 
little child .'" And the innocent little child clasped a 
finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous 
Abel, and he guided his father. " The fir branches 
drip upon thee, my son." " Yea, pleasantly, father, 
for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher 
and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How 
happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees ! 
they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels 
play round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree 
yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play 
with them ; but they leapt away from the branches, 
even to the Render twigs did they leap, and in a 
moment I beheld them on another tree. Why, O my 
father, would they not play with me ? I would be 
good to them as thou art good to me : and I groaned 
to them even as thou groanest when thou givest me 
to eat, and when thou coverst me at evening, and as 
often as I stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at 
me." Then Cain stopped, and stifling his groans he 
sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the 
darkness beside him. 

228 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



219 



And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, 
and said, " The Mighty One that persecuteth me is 
on this side and on that ; he pursueth my soul like 
the wind, like the sand-blast he passeth through me ; 
he is around me even as the air! O that I might be 
utterly no more! I desire to die — yea, the things 
that never had life, neither move they upon the 
earth — behold ! they seem precious to mine eyes. O 
that a man might live without the breath of his nos- 
trils ! So I might abide in darkness, and blackness, 
and an empty space ! Yea, I would lie down, I would 
not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became 
as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the 
young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For 
the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice, and the 
clouds in heaven look terribly on me ; the Mighty 
One who is against me speaketh in the wind of the 
cedar grove ; and in silence am I dried up." Then 
Enos spake to his father: "Arise, my father, arise, 
we are but a little way from the place where I found 
the cake and the pitcher." And Cain said, " How 
knowest thou?" and the child answered — "Behold, 
the bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from 
the forest ; and while even now thou wert lifting up 
thy voice, I heard the echo." Then the child took 
hold of his father, as if he would raise him : and 
Cain being faint and feeble, rose slowly on his knees 
and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and 
stood upright, and followed the child. 

The path was dark till within three strides' length 
of its termination, when it turned suddenly ; the 
thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moon- 
light appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. 
Enos ran before and stood in the open air ; and when 
Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness, the 
child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain 
were wasted as by fire ; his hair was as the matted 
curls on the Bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce 
and sullen eye beneath: and the black abundant 
locks on either side, a rank and tangled mass, were 
stained and scorched, as though the grasp of a 
burning iron hand had striven to rend them ; and his 
countenance told in a strange and terrible language 
of agonies that had been, and were, and were still 
to continue to be. 

The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye 
could reach it was desolate : the bare rocks faced 
each other, and left a long and wide interval of thin 
white sand. You might wander on and look round 
and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks, 
and discover nothing that acknowledged the influ- 
ence of the seasons. There was no spring, no sum- 
mer, no autumn : and the winter's snow, that would 
have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and 
scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised 
himself over this desert ; but the huge serpent often 
hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and 
the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within 
the coils of the serpent. The pointed and shattered 
summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude 
mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to proph- 
esy mutely of things that then were not ; steeples, 
and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far 
from the wood as a boy might shng a pebble of the 
brook, there was one rock by itself at a small dis- 
tance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated 
there perhaps by the groan which the Earth uttered 
when our first father fell. Before you approached, it 
appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slants 



ed from its point, and between its point and the 
sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here 
that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to 
this place he led his father. But ere they had reach- 
ed the rock they beheld a human shape : his back 
was towards them, and they were advancing unper- 
ceived, when they heard him smite his breast and 
cry aloud, "Woe is me ! woe is me! I must never die 
again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hun- 
ger." 

Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on 
the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of 
Cain ; but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy 
skin, his father's robe, and raised his eyes to his 
father, and listening whispered, " Ere yet I could 
speak, I am sure, O my father ! that I heard that 
voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a 
sweet voice? O my father! this is it:" and Cain 
trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, 
but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble 
slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet cannot 
refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, 
behold ! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly 
round the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, 
and looked up into his face. And the Shape shriek- 
ed, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his 
limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel 
whom he had killed! And Cain stood like one who 
struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding ter- 
ribleness of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, 
the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, 
and cried out with a bitter outcry, •' Thou eldest- 
born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, 
cease to torment me ! I was feeding my flocks in 
green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou 
killedst me ; and now I am in misery." Then Cain 
closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands ; and 
again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, 
and said to Enos, " What beholdest thou? Didst thou 
hear a voice, my son ?" " Yes, my father, I beheld 
a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet 
voice, full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up 
the Shape that was like Abel, and said: — "The 
Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, 
and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken 
thee ?" Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and 
rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the 
white sands beneath their feet ; and he shrieked yet 
a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the 
sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, 
and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his 
right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all 
three under the rock, and within the shadow. The 
Shape that was like Abel raised himself up, and 
spake to the child : " I Imow where the cold waters 
are, but I may not drink ; wherefore didst thou then 
take away my pitcher ?" But Cain said, " Didst thou 
not find favor in the sight of the Lord thy God ?" 
The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of the 
living only, the dead have another God." Then 
the child Enos hfted up his eyes and prayed ; but 
Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. " Wretched shall 
they be all the days of their mortal life," exclaimed 
the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable 
sacrifices to the God of the dead ; but after death 
their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved 
by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O 
my brother, who didst snatch me away from his 



220 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



power and his dominion." Having uttered these 
words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands ; 
and Cain said in his heart, " The curse of the Lord 
is on me ; but who is the God of the dead ?" and he 
ran after the Shape, and the Shape fled shrieking 
over the sands, and the sands rose Uke white mists 
behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that 
was Hke Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly 
outran Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, 
and came again to the rock where they had been 
sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child 
caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and he 
fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped, and be- 
holding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark 
woods," and he walked slowly back to the rocks ; 
and when he reached it the child told him that he 
had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and 
that the man had fallen upon the ground : and Cain 
once more sate beside him, and said, " Abel, my bro 
ther, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit 
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme 
agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy 
pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, 
that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the 
God of the dead ? where doth he make his dwelling 
what sacrifices are acceptable unto him ? for I have 
offered, but have not been received ; I have prayed, 
and have not been heard ; and how can I be afflicted 
more than I already am?" The Shape arose and 
answered, " O that thou hadst had pity on me as I 
will have pity on thee. Follow me, Son of Adam ! 
and bring thy child with thee ! " 

And they three passed over the white sands be- 
tween the rocks, silent as the shadows. 



now unfelt, but never forgotten. It was at once the 
melancholy of hope and of resignation. 

We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a sud- 
den tempest of wind and rain forced us to seek pro- 
tection in the vaulted door-way of a lone chapelry : 
and we sate face to face each on the stone bench 
along-side the low, weather-stained wall, and as close 
as possible to the massy door. 

After a pause of silence : Even thus, said he, like 
two strangers that have fled to the same shelter from 
the same storm, not seldom do Despair and Hope 
meet for the first time in the porch of Death ! AH 
extremes meet, I answered ; but yours was a strange 
and visionary thought. The better then doth it be- 
seem both the place and me, he replied. From a 
Visionary wilt thou hear a Vision ? Mark that vivid 
flash through this torrent of rain ! Fire and water. 
Even here thy adage holds true, and its truth is the 
moral of my Vision. I entreated him to proceed. 
Sloping his face towards the arch and yet averting 
his eye from it, he seemed to seek and prepare his 
words : till listening to the wind that echoed within 
the hollow edifice, and to the rain without, 



Which stole on his thoughts with it 
The clash hard by and the murmur ; 



two-fold sound, 
11 round. 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 

A FEELING of sadness, a peculiar melancholy, is 
"wont to take possession of me alike in Spring and in 
Autumn. But in Spring it is the melancholy of 
Hope : in Autumn it is the melancholy of Resigna- 
tion. As I was journeying on foot through the A pen- 
nine, I fell in with a pilgrim in whom the Spring and 
the Autumn and the Melancholy of both seemed to 
have combined. In his discourse there were the 
freshness and the colors of April: 

dual ramicel a ramo, 

Tal da pansier pensiero 

In lui germogliava. 

But as I gazed on his whole form and figure, I be- 
thought me of the not unlovely decays, both of age 
and of the late season, in the stately elm, after the 
clusters have been plucked from its entwining vines, 
and the vines are as bands of dried withies around 
its trunk and branches. Even so there was a memo- 
ry on his smooth and ample forehead, which blended 
with the dedication of his steady eyes, that still 
looked — I know not, whether upward, or far onward, 
or rather to the line of meeting where the sky rests 
upon the distance. But how may I express that 
dimness of abstraction which lay on the lustre of the 
pilgrim's eyes, like the flitting tarnish from the breath 
of a sigh on a silver mirror ! and which accorded 
with their slow and reluctant movement, whenever 
he turned them to any object on the right hand or on 
the left ? It seemed, methought, as if there lay upon 
the brightness a shadowy presence of disappointments 



he gradually sunk away, alike from me and from his 
own purpose, and amid the gloom of the storm, and 
in the duskiness of that place, he sate like an em- 
blem on a rich man's sepulchre, or like a mourner 
on the sodded grave of an only one — an aged mourner, 
who is watching the waned moon and sorroweth not. 
Starting at length from his brief trance of abstrac- 
tion, with courtesy and an atoning smile he renewed 
his discourse, and commenced his parable. 

During one of those short furloughs from the service 
of the Body, which the Soul may sometimes obtain 
even in this, its militant state, I found myself in a 
vast plain, which I immediately knew to be the Val- 
ley of Life. It possessed an astonishing diversity of 
soils : and here was a sunny spot, and there a dark 
one, forming just such a mixture of sunshine and 
shade, as we may have observed on the mountains* 
side in an April day, when the thin broken clouds 
are scattered over heaven. Almost in the very en- 
trance of the valley stood a large and gloomy pile, 
into which I seemed constrained to enter. Every 
part of the building was crowded with tawdry orna- 
ments and fantastic deformity. On every window 
was portrayed, in glaring and inelegant colors, some 
horrible tale, or preternatural incident, so that not a 
ray of light could enter, untinged by the medium 
through which it passed. The body of the building 
was full of people, some of them dancing, in and 
out, in unintelligible figures, with strange ceremonies 
and antic merriment, while others seemed convulsed 
with horror, or pining in mad melancholy. Inter- 
mingled with these, I observed a number of men, 
clothed in ceremonial robes, who appeared, now to 
marshal the various groups and to direct their move- 
ments, and now, with menacing countenances, to 
drag some reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed of 
iron bars intercrossed, which formed at the same 
time an immense cage, and the shape of a human 
Colossus. 

I stood for a while lost in wonder what these things 
might mean ; when lo ! one of the directors came up 
to me, and with a stern and reproachful look bade 
rae uncover my head, for that the place into which I 
had entered was the temple of the only true Reli- 
230 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



221 



gion, in the holier recess of which the great Goddess 
personally resided. Himself too he bade me reverence, 
as the consecrated minister of her rites. Awe-struck 
by the name of Religion, I bowed before the priest, 
and humbly and earnestly entreated him to conduct 
me into her presence. He assented. Offerings he took 
from me, with mystic sprinklings of water and with 
salt- he purified, and with strange sufflations he ex- 
orcised me ; and then led me through many a dark 
and winding alley, the dew-damps of which chilled 
my flesh, and the hollow echoes under my feet, 
mingled, methought, with meanings, affrighted me. 
At length we entered a large hall, without window, 
or spiracle, or lamp. The asylum and dormitory it 
seemed of perennial night — only that the walls were 
brought to the eye by a number of self-luminous 
inscriptions in letters of a pale pulchral light, that 
held strange neutrality with the darkness, on the 
verge of which it kept its rayless vigil. I could read 
them, methought ; but though each one of the words 
taken separately I seemed to understand, yet when I 
took them in sentences, they were riddles and in- 
comprehensible. As I stood meditating on these hard 
sayings, my guide thus addressed me — Read and be- 
lieve : these are mysteries ! — At the extremity of the 
vast hall the Goddess was placed. Her features, blend- 
ed with darkness, rose out to my view, terrible, yet 
vacant. I prostrated myself before her, and then 
retired with my guide, soul-withered, and wondering, 
and dissatisfied. 

As I re-entered the body of the temple, I heard a 
deep buzz as of discontent. A few whose eyes were 
bright, and either piercing or steady, and whose 
ample foreheads, with the weighty bar, ridge-like, 
above the eyebrows, bespoke observation followed 
by meditative thought ; and a much larger number, 
who were enraged by the severity and insolence of 
the priests in exacting their offerings, had collected 
in one tumultuous group, and with a confused outcry 
of " this is the Temple of Superstition ! " after much 
contumely, and turmoil, and cruel maltreatment on 
all sides, rushed out of the pile : and I, methought, 
joined them. 

We speeded from the Temple with hasty steps, 
and had now nearly gone round half the valley, 
when we were addressed by a woman, tall beyond 
the stature of mortals, and with a something more 
than human in her countenance and mien, which yet 
could by mortals be only felt, "not conveyed by words 
or intelligibly distinguished. Deep reflection, ani- 
mated by ardent feelings, was displayed in them: 
and hope, without its uncertainty, and a something 
more than all these, which I understood not, but 
which yet seemed to blend all these into a divine 
unity of expression. Her garments were white and 
matronly, and of the simplest texture. We inquired 
her name. My name, she replied, is Religion. 

The more numerous part of our company, affright- 
ed by the very sound, and sore from recent impostures 
or sorceries, hurried onwards and examined no far- 
ther. A few of us, struck by the manifest opposition 
of her form and manners to those of the Uving 
Idol, whom we had so recently abjured, agreed to 
follow her, though with cautious circumspection. 
She led us to an eminence in the midst of the valley, 
from the top of which we could command the whole 
plain, and observe the relation of the different parts 
of each to the other, and of each to the whole, and 
of all to each. She then gave us an optic glass which 



assisted without contradicting our natural vision, and 
enabled us to see far beyond the limits of the Valley 
of Life : though our eye even thus assisted permitted 
us only to behold a light and a glory, but Vv^hat we 
could not descry, save only that it was, and that it 
was most glorious. 

And now, with the rapid transition of a dream, I 
had overtaken and rejoined the more numerous party 
who had abruptly left us, indignant at the very name 
of religion. They journeyed on, goading each other 
with remembrances of past oppressions, and never 
looking back, till in the eagerness to recede from the 
Temple of Superstition, they had rounded the whole 
circle of the valley. And lo! there faced us the 
mouth of a vast cavern, at the base of a lofty and 
almost perpendicular rock, the interior side of which, 
unknown to them, and unsuspected, formed the ex- 
treme and backward wall of the Temple. An im- 
patient crowd, we entered the vast and dusky cave, 
which was the only perforation of the precipice. 
At the mouth of the cave sate two figures ; the first, 
by her dress and gestures, I Imew to be Sensuality; 
the second form, from the fierceness of his demeanor, 
and the brutal scornfulness of his, looks, declared 
himself to be the monster Blasphemy. He uttered 
big words, and yet ever and anon I observed that he 
turned pale at his own courage. We entered. Some 
remained in the opening of the cave, with the one or 
the other of its guardians. The rest, and I among 
them, pressed on, till we reached an ample chamber, 
that seemed the centre of the rock. The climate of 
the place was unnaturally cold. 

In the furthest distance of the chamber sate an 
old dim-eyed man, poring with a microscope over 
the Torso of a statue which had neither basis, nor 
feet, nor head ; but on its breast was carved Nature! 
To this he continually applied his glass, and seemed 
enraptured with the various inequalities which it 
rendered visible on the seemingly polished surface 
of the marble. — Yet evermore was this delight and 
triumph followed by expressions of hatred, and ve- 
hement railings against a Being, who yet, he assured 
us, had no existence. This mystery suddenly recalled 
to me what I had read in the Holiest Recess of the 
temple of Superstition. The old man spoke in divers 
tongues, and continued to utter other and most strange 
mysteries. Among the rest he talked much and ve- 
hemently concerning an infinite series of causes and 
effects, which he explained to be — a string of blind 
men, the last of whom caught hold of the skirt 
of the one before him, he of the next, and so on till 
they were all out of sight : and that they all walked 
infallibly straight, without making one false step, 
though all were alike blind. Methought I borrowed 
courage from surprise, and asked him, — Who then is 
at the head to guide them ? He looked at me with 
ineffable contempt, not unmixed with an angry sus- 
picion, and then rephed, " No one. The string of 
blind men went on for ever without any beginning : 
for although one blind man could not move without 
stumbling, yet infinite blindness supplied the want of 
sight." I burst into laughter, which instantly turned to 
terror — for as he started forward in rage, I caught 
a glance of him from behind ; and lo ! I beheld a 
monster biform and Janus-headed, in the hinder face 
and shape of which I instantly recognized the dread 
countenance of Superstition — and in the terror I 
awoke. 

231 



222 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE IMPROVISATORE; 

OR "JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, JOHN." 

Scene: — A spacious dravdng-room, with music-room 
adjoining. 

CATHERINE. 

What are the words ? 

ELIZA. 

Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes 
Kate has a favor to ask of you, Sir ; it is that you 
will repeat the ballad that Mr. sung so sweetly, 

FRIEND. 

It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do not re- 
collect the words distinctly. The moral of them 
however, I take to be this — 

Love would remain the same if true, 
When we were neither young nor new : 
Yea, and in all within the will that came. 
By the same proofs would show itself the same. 

ELIZA. 
What are the lines you repeated frora Beaumont 
and Fletcher, which my brother admired so much ? 
It begins with something about two vines so close 
that their tendrils intermingle. 

FRIEND. 

You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in " the 
Elder Brother." 

We'll live together, like our two neighbor vines, 
Circling our souls and loves in one another ! 
We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn ! 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 

CATHERINE. 

A precious boon, that would go far to reconcile 
one to old age — this love, if true ! But is there any 
such true love ? 

FRIEND. 

I hope so. 

CATHERINE. 

But do you believe it ? 

ELIZA {eagerly). 
I am sure he does. 

FRIEND. 

From a man turned of fifty, Catherine, I imagine, 
expects a less confident answer. 

CATHERINE. 

A more sincere one, perhaps. 

FRIEND. 

Even though he should have obtained the nick- 
name of Improvisatore, by perpetrating charades and 
extempore verses at Christmas times ? 

ELIZA. 

Nay, but be serious. 

FRIEND. 

Serious? Doubtless. A grave personage of my 
years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, can- 
not well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suspect, 
would be for them to remain so. It will be asked 
whether I am not the " elderly gentleman " who sate 
" despairing beside a clear stream," with a willow 
for his wig-block. 

ELIZA. 

Say another word, and we will call it downright 
affectation. 



CATHERINE. 

No ! we will be aflfronted, drop a courtesy, and asb 

pardon for our presumption in expecting that Mr. . 

would waste his sense on two insignificant girls. 

FRIEND. 

Well, well, I will be serious. Hem ! Now then 
commences the discourse ; Mr. Moore's song being 
the text. Love, as distinguished from Friendship, on 
the one hand, and from the passion that too often 
usurps its name, on the other — 

LUCIUS. 

{Eliza's brother, who had just joined the trio, in a 
whisper to the Friend). But is not Love the union of 
both? 

FRIEND {aside to LuciUs). 

He never loved who thinks so. 

ELIZA. 

Brother, we don't want you. There ! Mrs. H. can- 
not arrange the flower-vase without you. Thank you, 
Mrs, Hartman. 

LUCIUS. 

I '11 have my revenge ! I know what I will say ! 

ELIZA. 

Off! off! Now dear sir, — Love, you were saying— 

FRIEND. 

Hush! Preaching, you mean, Eliza. 

ELiza {impatiently). 
Pshaw ! 

FRIEND. 

Well then, I was saying that Love, truly such, ia 
itself not the most common thing in the world : and 
mutual love still less so. But that enduring personal 
attachment, so beautifully delineated by Erin's sweet 
melodist, and still more touchingly, perhaps, in the 
well-known ballad, " John Anderson, my jo, John," 
in addition to a depth and constancy of character of 
no every-day occurrence, supposes a peculiar sensi- 
bility and tenderness of nature ; a constitutional com- 
municativeness and uilerancy of heart and soul ; a 
delight in the detail of sympathy, in the outward and 
visible signs of the sacrament within — to count, as it 
were, the pulses of the life of love. But above all, it 
supposes a soul which, even in the pride and sum- 
mer-tide of life — even in the lustihood of health and 
strength, had felt oftenest and prized highest that 
which age cannot take away, and which, in all our 
lovings, is the Love ; 

ELIZA. 

There is something here {pointing to her hearf) that 
seems to imderstand you, but wants the word that 
would make it understand itself 

CATHERINE. 

I, too, seem Xofeel what you mean. Interpret the 
feeling for us. 

FRIEND. 

1 mean that willing sense of the insufficing- 

ness of the self for itself, which predisposes a gener- 
ous nature to see, in the total being of another, the 
supplement and completion of its own — that quiet 
perpetual seeking which the presence of the beloved 
object modulates, not suspends, where the heart mo- 
mently finds, and, finding, again seeks on — lastly, 
when " life's changeful orb has pass'd the full," a 
confirmed faith in the nobleness of humanity, thus 
brought home and pressed, as it were, to the very 
bosom of hourly experience : it supposes, I say, a 
heart-felt reverence for worth, not the less deep be- 
cause divested of its solemnity by habit, by familiar- 
232 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



223 



ity, by mutual infirmities, and even by a feeling of 
modesty which will arise in dehcate minds, when 
they are conscious of possessing the same or the 
correspondent excellence in their own characters. 
In short, there must be a mind, which, while it feels 
the beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its 
own, and by right of love appropriates it, can call 
Goodness its Playfellow, and dares make sport of 
time and infirmity, while, in the person of a thou- 
sand-foldly endeared partner, we feel for aged Virtue 
the caressing fondness that belongs to the Innocence 
of childhood, and repeat the same attentions and 
tender courtesies as had been dictated by the same 
affection to the same object when attired in feminine 
loveliness or in manly beauty. 

ELIZA. 

What a soothing — what an elevating idea! 

CATHERINE. 

If it be not only an idea. 

FRIEND. 

At all events, these qualities which I have enumer- 
ated, are rarely found united in a single individual. 
How much more rare must it be, that two such in- 
dividuals should meet together in this wide world 
under circumstances that admit of their union as 
Husband and Wife ! A person may be highly estima- 
ble on the whole, nay, amiable as neighbor, friend, 
housemate — in short, in all the concentric circles of 
attachment, save only the last and inmost; and yet 
from how many causes be estranged from the highest 
perfection in this ! Pride, coldness or fastidiousness 
of nature, worldly cares, an anxious or ambitious dis- 
position, a passion for display, a sullen temper — one 
or the other — too often proves " the dead fly in the 
compost of spices," and any one is enough to unfit it 
for the precious balm of unction. For some mighty 
good sort of people, too, there is not seldom a sort of 
solemn saturnine, or, if you will, ursine vanity, that 
keeps itself alive by sucking the paws of its own self 
importance. And as this high sense, or rather sensa- 
tion of their own value is, for the most part, ground- 
ed on negative qualities, so they have no better means 
of preserving the same but by negatives — that is, by 
not doing or saying any thing, that might be put down 
for fond, silly, or nonsensical, — or (to use their own 
phrase) by never forgetting themselves, which some of 
their acquaintance are uncharitable enough to think 
the most worthless object they could be employed in 
remembering. 

ELIZA (in answer to a whisper from Catherine). 
To a hair ! He must have sate for it himself Save 
me from such folks ! But they are out of the question. 

FRIEND. 

True ! but the same effect is produced in thousands 
by the too general insensibility to a very important 
truth ; this, namely, that the misery of human life is 
made up of large masses, each separated from the 
other by certain intervals. One year, the death of a 
child ; years after, a failure in trade ; after another 
longer or shorter interval, a daughter may have 
married unhappily; — in all but the singularly un- 
fortunate, the integral parts that compose the sum 
total of the unhappiness of a man's life, are easily 
coimted, and distinctly remembered. The happiness 
of Ufe, on the contrary, is made up of minute frac- 
tions — the little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a 
smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the dis- 
2E 



guise of playful raillery, and the countless other 
infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial 
feeling. 

CATHERINE. 

Well, Sir ; you have said quite enough to make me 
despair of finding a " John Anderson, my jo, John," 
to totter down the hill of life with. 

FRIEND. 

Not so ! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer 
than good women, but that what another would find 
in you, you may hope to find in another. But well, 
however, may that boon be rare, the possession of 
which would be more than an adequate reward for 
the rarest virtue. 

ELIZA. 

Surely, he who has described it so beautifully, 
must have possessed it ? 

FRIEND. 

If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had 
believingly anticipated and not found it, how bitter 
the disappointment ! 

(Then, after a pause of a few minutes). 

Answer {ex improviso). 
Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat. 
He had, or fancied that he had ; 
Say, 't was but in his own conceit— 

The fancy made him glad ! 
Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish ! 
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish ! 
The fair fulfilment of his poesy, 
When his young heart first yeam'd for sympathy ! 

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain 

Unnourish'd wane ! 
Faith asks her daily bread, 
And Fancy must be fed ! 
Now so it chanced — from wet or dry. 
It boots not how — I know not why — • 
She miss'd her wonted food : and quickly 
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. 
Then came a restless state, 't wixt yea and nay, 
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow ; 
Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay, 
Above its anchor driving to and fro. 

That boon, which but to have possess'd 
In a belief, gave life a zest — 
Uncertain both what it had been, 
And if by error lost, or luck ; 
And what it was : — an evergreen 
Which some insidious blight had struck. 
Or annual flower, which past its blow. 
No vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 
Uncertain, and afraid to know. 
Doubts toss'd him to and fro ; 
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive. 
Like babes bewilder'd in a snow. 
That cling and huddle from the cold 
In hollow tree or ruin'd fold. 



Those sparkling colors, once his boast. 
Fading, one by one away, 

Thin and hueless as a ghost. 

Poor Fancy on her sick-bed lay ; 

111 at distance, worse when near. 

Telling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
233 



224 



COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where was it then, the sociable sprite 
That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish ! 
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish, 
Itself a substance by no other right 
But that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow, 
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow ! 
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now. 



O bliss of blissful hours ! 
The boon of Heaven's decreeing, 
While yet in Eden's bowers 
Dwelt the First Husband and his sinless Mate ! 
The one sweet plant which, piteous Heaven agreeing, 
They bore with them through Eden's closing gate ! 
Of life's gay summer-tide the sovran Rose ! 
Late autumn's Amaranth, that more fragrant blows 
When Passion's flowers all fall or fade ; 
If this were ever his, in outward being, 
Or but his own true love's projected shade. 
Now, that at length by certain proof he knows. 
That whether real or magic show, 
Whate'er it was, it is no longer so ; 
Though heart be lonesome, Hope laid low, 
Yet, Lady ! deem him not unblest : 
The certainty that struck Hope dead, 
Hath left Contentment in her stead : 
And that is next to best ! 



THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 

Of late, in one of those most weary hours. 
When life seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And, from the numbing spell to win relief, 
Call'd on the past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cower'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache. 
Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake ; 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal. 
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery. 

The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging from a mist : or like a stream 
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep. 

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, 
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
The picture stole upon my inward sight. 
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest. 
As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. 
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought. 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 
Or charm'd my youth, that kindled from above, 
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 



Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves 
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids. 
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, 
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array. 
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. 
And many a verse which to myself I sang, 
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang, 
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 
And last, a matron now, of sober mien. 
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, 
Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 
Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy. 
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 
She bore no other name than Poesy ; 
And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 
That had but newly left a mother's knee, 
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone. 
As if with elfin playfellows well known, 
And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 



Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 

Thy fair creation with a mastering eye. 

And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand; 

Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 

See fragment shadows of the crossing deer. 

And with that serviceable nymph I stoop. 

The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 

I see no longer ! I myself am there, 

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 

And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. 

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest. 

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 



The brightness of the world, thou once free, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O, Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills ! 
And famous Amo fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, 
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. 
And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, 
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn, 
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine : 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ' 
'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 

234 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



225 



See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Maeomdes ;* 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, 
Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart !t 

* Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first in- 
troduced the works of Homer to his countrymen. 

1 1 know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the 
overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Ro- 
man classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imagi- 
nations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the 
restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of 
Boccaccio : where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the 
young prince and the beautiful girl Biancafiore had learned 
their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of 
Love. Incomincib Racheo a mettere il suo officio in essecu- 
zione con intera sollecitudine. £ loro, in breve tempo, inseg- 



O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, 
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 
Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views 
Fauns, nymphs, and wuiged saints, all gracious to thy 



Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks. 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. 
With that sly satyr peering through the leaves ! 



nato a conoscer le letteie, fece legere il santo libra cC Ovvidio, 
nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santifuochidi Venere 
si debbano nefreddi cuori occmdere." 

235 



THE END OF COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE 
OF 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



% 



eontent^t 



Page 
MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY v 

THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 1 

THE CENCI ; a Tragedy, in Five Acts 50 

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND; a Lyrical Drama, 

in Four Acts 77 

QUEEN MAB 104 

Notes 123 

ALASTOR, OR THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 141 
ROSALIND AND HELEN; a Modem Eclogue 148 
ADONAIS ; an Elegy on the Death of John Keats 159 

EPIPSYCmDION ; Verses addressed to the 
Noble and unfortunate Lady Emilia 

* V 164 

HELLAS ; a Lyrical Drama 170 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— 

Julian and Maddalo ; a Conversation .... 182 

The Witch of Atlas /.^♦187 

The Triumph of Life 193 

Lines written among the Euganean Hills. 198 

Letter to 201 

The Sensitive Plant 204 

A Vision of the Sea 207 

Ode to Heaven 208 

Ode to the West Wind 209 

An Ode, written October 1819, before the 

Spaniards had recovered their Liberty . 210 

Ode to Liberty ib. 

Ode to Naples 213 

The Cloud 214 

To a Skylark 215 

An Exhortation 216 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty ib. 

Marianne's Dream 217 

Mont Blanc 218 

On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci, in 

the Florentine Gallery 219 

Song. " Rarely, rarely, comest thou" .... 220 

To Constantia, singing ib. 

The Fugitives 221 

A Lament ib. 

The Pine Forest of the Cascine, near Pisa ib. 

To Night 223 

Evening — Ponte a Mare, Pisa. ib. 

Arethusa ib. 

The Question 224 

Lines to an Indian Air ib. 

Stanzas, written in dejection, near Naples ib. 

Autumn ; a Dirge 225 

Hymn of Apollo ib. 



Page 

Hymn of Pan 225 

The Boat on the Serchio 226 

The Zucca ib. 

The Two Spirits ; an Allegory 227 

A Fragment 228 

A Bridal Song ib. 

The Sunset ib. 

Song. On a Faded Violet 229 

Lines to a Critic ib. 

Good Night ib. 

To-morrow ib. 

Death ib- 

A Lament ib. 

Love's Philosophy ib. 

To E*** V*** 230 

To ih. 

Lines ib. 

To William Shelley ib. 

An Allegory ib. 

MutabiUty ib. 

From the Arabic; an Imitation .... 231 

To ib. 

Music ib. 

November, 1815 ib. 

Death , . . ib. 

To 232 

Passage of the Apennines ib. 

To Mary ib. 

The Past ib. 

Song of a Spirit ib. 

Liberty ib. 

To ib. 

The Isle 233 

To ib. 

Time ih. 

Lines ib. 

A Song ib. 

The World's Wanderers ib. 

A Dirge ib. 

Lines 234 

Superstition ib. 

" O ! there are spirits of the air" ib. 

Stanzas.— April, 1814 ib. 

Mutabihty 235 

On Death ib. 

A Summer Evening Church-yard, Lech- 
dale, Gloucestershire ih. 

Lines, written on hearing the News of the 

Death of Napoleon t5. 

Summer and Winter 236 

The Tower of Famine ib. 

The Aziola ib. 

Dirge for the Year ih. 

239 



iv 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Sonnet. Ozymandias 237 

.. " Ye hasten to the dead ! What 

seek ye there ?" ih. 

■ Political Greatness ib. 

.. " Alas ! good friend, what profit 

can you see" ib. 

- " Lift not the painted veil which ib. 

those who live " ib. 

. To Wordsworth ib. 

. Feelings of a Republican on the 

Fall of Bonaparte ib. 

•■ Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti ib. 
Translated from the Greek of Mos- 

chus 238 

Translations : — 

Hymn to Mercury — translated from Homer ib. 
The Cyclops ; a Satiric Drama, translated 

irom the Greek of Euripides 245 



Scenes, from the "Magico Prodigioso" of 
Calderon 253 

Translation from Moschus 260 

Scenes from the "Faust" of Goethe. — 
Prologue in Heaven 260 

May-Day Night 261 

Fragments : — 

Ginevra 265 

Charles the First 267 

From an unfinished Drama 270 

Prince Athanase ib. 

Mazenghi 273 

The Woodman and the Nightingale 274 

To the Moon 275 

Song for Tasso ib. 

Epitaph ib. 

The Waning Moon ib 



The Publishers of the present edition of Mr. Shel- 
ley's Poetical Works think it necessary to state, that 
the first Poem in the collection, " The Revolt of 
Islam," did not originally bear that title : it appeared 
under the name of " Laon and Cythna; or the Revo- 
lution of the Golden City : a Vision of the Nineteenth 
Century." But, with the exception of this change of 
name, — into the reasons that led to which it is now 
tmnecessary to inquire — some inconsiderable verbal 
corrections, and the omission of the following para- 
graph and note in the preface, the poem is in all 
respects the same as when first given to the public. 

" In the personal conduct of my hero and heroine, 
there is one circumstance which was intended to 
startle the reader from the trance of ordinary life. It 
was my object to break through the crust of those 
outworn opinions on which established institutions 
depend. I have appealed, therefore, to the most 



universal of all feelings, and have endeavored to 
strengthen the moral sense, by forbidding it to waste 
its energies in seeking to avoid actions which are 
only crimes of convention. It is because there is so 
great a multitude of artificial vices, that there are so 
few real virtues. Those feelings alone which are 
benjipijent or malevolent are essentially good or bad. 
The c^i^mstance of which I speak was introduced, 
however, merely to accustom men to that charity and 
toleration, which the exhibition of a practice widely 
diflfering from their own has a tendency to promote.* 
Nothing, indeed, can be more mischievous than many 
actions innocent in themselves, which might bring 
down upon individuals the bigoted contempt and rage 
of the multitude." 



* The sentiments connected with and characteristic of 
circumstance have no persona, reference to the writer. 
240 



^tmt>iv of ^tvtt* aSfisssne SfteUe», 



Field-Place, in the county of Sussex, was the spot 
where Percy Bysshe Shelley first saw the light. 
He was born on the 4th of August, 1792 ; and 
was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart, 
of Castle-Goring. His family is an ancient one, 
and a branch of it has become the representative 
of the house of the illustrious Sir Philip Sidney 
of Penshurst. Despising honors which only rest 
upon the accidental circumstances of birth, Shel- 
ley was proud of this connexion with an immortal 
name. At the customary age, about thirteen, he 
was sent to Eton School, and before he had com- 
pleted his fifteenth year, he published two novels, 
the Rosicrucian and Zasterozzi. From Eton he 
removed to University College, Oxford, to mature 
his studies, at the age of sixteen, an earlier period 
than is usuaL At Oxford he was, according to 
custom, imbued with the elements of logic ; and 
he ventured, in contempt of the fiat of the Univer- 
sity, to apply them to the investigation of ques- 
tions which it is orthodox to take for granted. His 
original and uncompromising spirit of inquiry 
could not reconcile the limited use of logical prin- 
ciples. He boldly tested, or attempted to test, 
propositions which he imagined, the more they 
were obscure, and the more claim they had upon 
his credence, the greater was the necessity for ex- 
amining them. His spirit was an inquiring one, 
and he fearlessly sought after what he believed to 
be truth, before, it is probable, he had acquired all 
the information necessary to guide him, from col- 
lateral sources — a common error of headstrong 
youth. This is the more likely to be the case, as 
when time had matured his knowledge, he differed 
much on points upon which, in callow years and 
without an instructor, flung upon the world to 
form his ovra principles of action, guileless, and 
vehement, he was wont to advocate strongly. Shel- 
ley possessed the bold quality of inquiring into 
the reason of every thing, and of resisting what he 
could not reconcile to be right according to his 
conscience. In some persons this has been de- 
nominated a virtue, in others a sin — just as it 
might happen to chime in with worldly custom or 
received opinion. At school he formed a conspi- 
racy for resistance to that most odious and de- 
testable custom of English seminaries, fagging, 
which pedagogues are bold enough to defend open- 
ly at the present hour. 

At Oxford he imprudently printed a dissertation 
on the being of a God, which caused his expulsion 
SF 



in his second term, as he refused to retract any of 
his opinions; and thereby incurred the marked 
displeasure of his father. This expulsion arising, 
as he believed conscientiously, from his avowal of 
what he thought to be true, did not deeply affect 
him. His mind seems to have been wandering in 
a maze of doubt at times between truth and error, 
ardently desirous of finding the truth, warm in 
its pursuit, but without a pole-star to guide him 
in steering after it. In this state of things he met 
with the Political Justice of Godwin, and read it 
with eagerness and delight. What he had wanted 
he had now foimd; he determined that justice 
should be his sole guide, and justice alone. He 
regarded not whether what he did was after the 
fashion of the world ; he pursued the career he 
had marked out with sincerity, and excited cen- 
sure for some of his actions and praise for others, 
bordering upon wonder, in proportion as they were 
singular, or as their motives could not be appre- 
ciated. His notions at the University tended to 
atheism ; and in a work which he published en- 
titled " Queen Mab," it is evident that this doctrine 
had at one time a hold upon his mind. This was 
printed for private circulation only, and was pi- 
rated by a knavish bookseller and given to the 
public, long after the writer had altered many of 
the opinions expressed in it, disclaimed it, and 
lamented its having been printed. He spoke of 
the commonly-received notions of God with con- 
tempt ; and hence the idea that he denied the be- 
ing of any superintending first cause. He was 
not on this head sufficiently explicit. He seemed 
hopeless, in moments of low spirits, of there being 
such a ruling power as he wished, yet he ever 
clung to the idea of some " great spirit of intel- 
lectual beauty" being throughout all things. His 
Ufe was inflexibly moral and benevolent. He acted 
up to the theory of his received doctrine of jus- 
tice; and, after all the censures that were cast 
upon him, who shall impugn the man who thus 
acts and lives ? 

Shelley married at an early age a Miss Harriet 
Westbrooke, a very beautiful girl, much younger 
than himself, daughter of a coffee-house-keeper, 
retired from business. By this marriage he so ir- 
ritated his father, that he was entirely abandoned 
by him ; but the lady's father allowed them 200Z. 
per annum, and they resided some time in Edin- 
burgh and then in Ireland. The match was a 
Gretna-green one, and did not turn out happily, 
241 



VI 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. 



By this connexion he had two children, the young- 
est of whom, born in 1815, is since dead. Con- 
sistent witli his own views of marriage and its 
institution, Slaelley paid liis addresses to another 
lady, Miss Godwin, with whom, in July, 1814, he 
fled, accompanied by Miss Jane Claremont, her 
sister-in-law, to Uri, in Switzerland, from whence, 
after a few days' residence, they suddenly quitted, 
suspecting they were watched by another lodger ; 
they departed for Paris on foot, and there found 
that the person to whom they had confided a large 
trunk of clothes, had absconded with them : this 
hastened their return to England. A child was 
the fruit of this expedition. Shortly after they 
again quitted England, and went to Geneva, Como 
and Venice. In a few months they revisited Eng- 
land, and took up their abode in Bath, from whence 
Shelley was suddenly called by the unexpected 
suicide of his wife, who destroyed herself on the 
10th November, 1816. Her fate hung heavy on 
the mind of her husband, who felt deep self-re- 
proach that he had not selected a female of a higher 
order of intellect, who could appreciate better the 
feelings of one constituted as he was. Both were 
entitled to compassion, and both were sufferers by 
this unfortunate alliance. Shortly after the death 
of his first wife, Shelley, at the soUcitation of her 
father, married Mary Wolstonecraft Godwin, 
daughter of the celebrated authoress of the Rights 
of Woman ; and went to reside at Great Marlow 
in Buckinghamshire. That this second hymen 
was diametrically opposed to his own sentiments 
will be apparent from the following letter, address- 
ed to Sir James Lawrence, on the perusal of one 
of that gentleman's works : — 

♦' Lymoutb, Barnstaple, Devon, August 17, 1812. 

*' Sir, — I feel peculiar satisfaction in seizing the 
opportunity which your politeness places in my 
power, of expressing to you personally (as I may 
say) a high acknowledgment of my sense of your 
talents and principles, which, before I conceived 
it possible that I should ever know you, I sincerely 
entertained. Your " Empire of the Nairs," which 
I read this spring, succeeded in making me a 
perfect convert to its doctrines. I then retained 
no doubts of the evils of marriage ; Mrs. Wolstone- 
craft reasons too well for that ; but I had been dull 
enough not to perceive the greatest argument 
against it, until developed in the "Nairs," viz. 
prostitution both legal and illegal. 

" I am a young man, not of age, and have been 
married a year to a woman younger than myself 
Love seems inclined to stay in the prison, and my 
only reason for putting him in chains, whilst con- 
vinced of the unholiness of the act, was a know- 
ledge, that in the present state of society, if love 
is not thus villanously treated, she, who is most 
loved, will be treated worse by a misjudging world. 



In short, seduction, which term could have no 
meaning in a rational society, has now a most 
tremendous one ; the fictitious merit attached to 
chastity has made that a forerunner to the most 
terrible ruins, which in Malabar would be a pledge 
of honor and homage. If there is any enormous 
and desolating crime of which I should shudder 
to be accused, it is seduction. I need not say how 
I admire " Love," and little as a British public 
seems to appreciate its merit, in not permitting it 
to emerge from a first edition, it is with satisfac- 
tion I find, that justice had conceded abroad what 
bigotry has denied at home. I shall take the lib- 
erty of sending you any little publication I may 
give to the world. Mrs. S. joins with myself in 
hoping, if we come to London this winter, we may 
be favored with the personal friendship of one 
whose writings we have learnt to esteem. 
" Youi's, very truly, Percy Bysshe Shelley." 

A circumstance arose out of his first marriage 
which attracted a good deal of notice from the 
public. As we have already mentioned, there were 
two children left, whom the Lord Chancellor El- 
don took away from their father by one of his own 
arbitrary decrees, because the religious sentiments 
of Shelley were avowedly heterodox. No immor- 
ality of life, no breach of parental duty was at- 
tempted to be proved ; it was sufficient that the 
father did not give credit to religion as established 
by act of parliament, to cause the closest ties of 
nature to be rent asunder, and the connexion of 
father and child to be for ever broken. This des- 
potism of a law-ofhcer has since been displayed in 
another case, where immorality of the parent was 
the alleged cause. Had the same law-officer, im- 
happily for England, continued to preside, no doubt 
the political sentiments of the parent would by 
and by furnish an excuse for such a monstrous 
tyranny over the rights of nature. 

Shelley for ever sought to make mankind and 
things around him in harmony with a better state 
of moral existence. He was too young and inex- 
perienced when he first acted upon this principle 
to perceive the obstacles which opposed the pro- 
gress of his views, arising out of the usages and 
customs which rule mankind, and which, from the 
nature of things, it takes a long time to overcome. 
Ardent in the pursuit of the good he sought, he 
was always ready to meet the consequences of his 
actions ; and if any condemn them for their mis- 
taken views, they ought to feel that charity should 
forbid their arraigning motives, when such proofs 
of sincerity were before them. The vermin who, 
under the specious title of " reviewers," seek in 
England to crush every bud of genius that appears 
out of the pale of their own party, fell mercilessly 
upon the works of SheUey. The beauty and pro- 
fundity which none but the furious zealots of a 
242 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Vll 



faction could deny — these were passed over in a 
sweeping torrent of vulgar vituperation by the 
servile and venal Quarterly. 

During his residence at Great Marlow, he com- 
posed his Revolt of Islam. In 1817 he left Eng- 
land, never to return to it, and directed his steps 
to Italy, where he resided partly at Venice, partly 
at Pisa near his friend Byron, and on the neigh- 
boring coast. In the month of June 1822 he was 
temporarily a resident in a house situated on the 
Gulf of Lerici. Being much attached to sea-ex- 
cursions, he kept a boat, in which he was in the 
habit of cruising along the coast. On the 7th of 
July, he set sail from Leghorn, where he had been 
to meet Mr. Leigh Hunt, who had just then ar- 
rived in Italy, intending to return to Lerici. But 
he never reached that place ; the boat in which 
he set sail was lost in a violent storm, and all on 
board perished. The following particulars of that 
melancholy event are extracted from the work of 
Mr. Leigh Hvmt, entitled " Lord Byron and some 
of his Contemporaries." 

*' In June 1822, 1 arrived in Italy, in consequence 
of the invitation to set up a work with my friend 
and Lord Byron. Mr. Shelley was passing the sum- 
mer season at a house he had taken for that pur- 
pose on the Gulf of Lerici ; and on hearing of my 
arrival at Leghorn, came thither, accompanied by 
Mr. Williams, formerly of the 8th Dragoons, who 
was then on a visit to him. He came to welcome 
his friend and family, and see us comfortably set- 
tled at Pisa. He accordingly went with us to that 
city, and after remaining in it a few days, took 
leave on the night of the 7th July, to return with 
Mr. Williams to Lerici, meaning to come back to 
us shortly. In a day or two the voyagers were 
missed. The afternoon of the 8th had been stormy, 
with violent squalls from the south-west. A night 
succeeded, broken up with that tremendous thun- 
der and lightning, which appals the stoutest sea- 
man in the Mediterranean, dropping its bolts in 
all directions more like melted brass, or liquid pil- 
lars of fire, than any thing we conceive of light- 
ning in our northern climate. The suspense and 
anguish of their friends need not be dwelt upon. 
A dreadful interval took place of more than a 
week, during which every inquiry and every fond 
hope were exhausted. At the end of that period 
our worst fears were confirmed. The following 
narrative of the particulars is from the pen of Mr. 
Trelawney, a friend of Lord Byron's, who had not 
long been acquainted with Mr. Shelley, but enter- 
tained the deepest regard for him : — 

" ' Mr. Shelley, Mr. Williams (formerly of the 
8th Dragoons), and one seaman, Charles Vivian, 
left Villa Magni near Lerici, a small town situate 
in the Bay of Spezia, on the 30th of June, at twelve 
o'clock, and arrived the same night at Leghorn. 



Their boat had been built for Mr. Shelley at Genoa 
by a captain in the navy. It was twenty-four feet 
long, eight in the beam, schooner-rigged, with 
gaft topsails, etc. and drew four feet water. On 
Monday, the 8th of July, at the same hour, they 
got under weigh to return home, having on board 
a quantity of household articles, four hundred dol- 
lars, a small canoe, and some books and manu- 
scripts. At half past twelve they made all sail out 
of the harbor with a light and favorable breeze, 
steering direct for Spezia. I had Hkewise weighed 
anchor to accompany them a few miles out in 
Lord Byron's schooner, the Bolivar ; but there was 
some demur about papers from the guard-boat; 
and they, fearful of losing the breeze, sailed with- 
out me. I re-anchored, and watched my friends, 
till their boat became a speck on the horizon, 
which was growing thick and dark, with heavy 
clouds moving rapidly, and gathering in the south- 
west quarter. I then retired to the cabin, where I 
had not been half an hour, before a man on deck 
told me a heavy squall had come on. We let go 
another anchor. The boats and vessels in the roads 
were scudding past us in all directions to get into 
harbor ; and in a moment, it blew a hard gale from 
the south-west, the sea, from excessive smoothness, 
foaming, breaking, and getting up into a very 
heavy swell. The wind, having shifted, was now 
directly against my friends. I felt confident they 
would be obliged to bear off for Leghorn ; and 
being anxious to hear of their safety, stayed on 
board till a late hour, but saw nothing of them. 
The violence of the wind did not continue above 
an hour ; it then gradually subsided ; and at eight 
o'clock, when I went on shore, it was almost a 
calm. It, however, blew hard at intervals during 
the night, with rain, and thunder and lightning. 
The lightning struck the mast of a vessel close to 
us, shivering it to splinters, killing two men, and 
wounding others. From these circumstances, be- 
coming greatly alarmed for the safety of the voy- 
agers, a note was dispatched to Mr. Shelley's house 
at Lerici, the reply to which stated that nothing 
had been heard of him and his friend, which aug- 
mented our fears to such a degree, that couriers 
were dispatched on the whole line of coast from 
Leghorn to Nice, to ascertain if they had put in 
anywhere, or if there had been any wreck, or in- 
dication of losses by sea. I immediately started 
for Via Reggio, having lost sight of the boat in 
that direction- My worst fears were almost con- 
firmed on my arrival there, by news that a small 
canoe, two empty water-barrels, and a bottle, had 
been found on the shore, which things I recognized 
as belonging to the boat. I had still, however, 
warm hopes that these articles had been thrown 
overboard to clear them firom useless lumber in 
the storm ; and it seemed a general opinion that 
they had missed Leghorn, and put into Elba or 
243 



Vlll 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



Corsica, as nothing more was heard for eight days. 
This state of suspense becoming intolerable, I re- 
turned from Spezia to Via Reggio, where my worst 
fears were confirmed by the information that two 
bodies had been washed on shore, one on that 
night very near the town, which, by the dress and 
stature, I knew to be Mr. Shelley's. Mr. Keats's 
last volume of " Lamia," " Isabella," etc. being 
open in the jacket pocket, confirmed it beyond a 
doubt. The body of Mr. Williams was subsequent- 
ly found near a tower on the Tuscan shore, about 
four miles from his companion. Both the bodies 
were greatly decomposed by the sea, but identified 
beyond a doubt. The seaman, Charles Vivian, was 
not found for nearly three weeks afterwards : — his 
body was interred on the spot on which a wave 
had washed it, in the vicinity of Massa. 

" ' After a variety of applications to the Luc- 
chese and Tuscan governments, and our ambassa- 
dor at Florence, I obtained, from the kindness and 
exertions of Mr. Dawkins, an order to the officer 
commanding the tower of Migliarino (near to 
which Lieutenant Williams had been cast, and 
buried in the sand), that the body should be at my 
disposal. I likewise obtained an order to the same 
effect to the commandant at Via Reggio, to deliver 
up the remains of Mr. Shelley, it having been de- 
cided by the friends of the parties that the bodies 
should be reduced to ashes by fire, as the readiest 
mode of conveying them to the places where the 
deceased would have wished to repose, as well as 
of removing all objections respecting the quaran- 
tine laws, which had been urged against their dis- 
interment. Every thing being prepared for the 
requisite purposes, I embarked on board Lord By- 
ron's schooner with my friend Captain Shenley, 
and sailed on the 13th of August. After a tedious 
passage of eleven hours, we anchored off Via Reg- 
gio, and fell in with two small vessels, which I 
had hired at Leghorn some days before for the 
purpose of ascertaining, by the means used to re- 
cover sunken vessels, the place in which my 
friend's boat had foundered. They had on board 
the captain of a fishing-boat, who, having been 
overtaken in the same squall, had witnessed the 
sinking of the boat, without (as he says) the pos- 
sibility of assisting her. After dragging the bot- 
tom, in the place which he indicated, for six days 
without finding her, I sent them back to Leghorn, 
and went on shore. The major commanding the 
town, with the captain of the port, accompanied 
me to the governor. He received us very cour- 
teously, and did not object to the removal of our 
friends' remains, but to burning them, as the latter 
was not specified in the order. However, after 
some little explanation, he assented, and we gave 
the necessary directions for making every prepa- 
ration to commence our painful imdertaking next 
morning.' " 



" It was thought that the whole of these melan- 
choly operations might have been performed in 
one day : but the calculation turned out to be er- 
roneous. Mr. Williams's remains were commenced 
with. Mr. Trelawney and Captain Shenley were 
at the tower by noon, with proper persons to assist, 
and were joined shortly by Lord Byron and my- 
self. A portable fixrnace and a tent had been pre- 
pared. " Wood," continues Mr. Trelawney, " we 
found in abimdance on the beach, old trees and 
parts of wrecks. Within a few paces of the spot 
where the body lay, there was a rude-built shed 
of straw, forming a temporary shelter for soldiers 
at night, when performing the coast-patrol duty. 
The grave was at high-water mark, some eighteen 
paces from the surf, as it was then breaking, the 
distance about four miles and a half from Via 
Reggio. The magnificent bay of Spezia is on the 
right of this spot, Leghorn on the left, at equal 
distances of about twenty -two miles. The head- 
lands, projecting boldly and far into the sea, form 
a deep and dangerous gulf, with a heavy swell 
and a strong current generally running right into 
it. A vessel embayed in this gulf, and overtaken 
by one of the squalls so common upon the coast 
of it, is almost certain to be wrecked. The loss 
of small craft is great ; and the shallowness of the 
water, and breaking of the surf, preventing ap- 
proach to the shore, or boats going out to assist, 
the loss of lives is in proportion. It was in the 
centre of this bay, about four or five miles at sea, 
in fifteen or sixteen fathom water, with a light 
breeze under a crowd of sail, that the boat of our 
friends was suddenly taken clap aback by a sudden 
and very violent squall; and it is supposed that in 
attempting to bear up under such a press of can- 
vas, all the sheets fast, the hands unprepared, and 
only three persons on board, the boat filled to lee- 
ward, and having two tons of ballast, and not be- 
ing decked, went down on the instant ; not giving 
them a momerrt to prepare themselves by even 
taking off their boots, or seizing an oar. Mr. 
Williams was the only one who could swim, and 
he but indifferently. The spot where Mr. Wil- 
liams's body lay was well adapted for a man of 
his imaginative cast of mind, and I wished his re- 
mains to rest undisturbed; but it was willed other- 
wise. Before us was the sea, with islands ; behind 
us the Apennines ; beside us, a large tract of thick 
wood, stunted and twisted into fantastic shapes by 
the sea-breeze. — Tba heat was intense, the sand 
being so scorched as to render standing on it pain- 
ful." 

" Mr. Trelawney proceeds to describe the disin- 
terment and burning of Mr. Williams's remains. 
Calumny, which never shows itself grosser than 
in its charges of want of refinement, did not spare 
even these melancholy ceremonies. The firiends 
of the deceased, though they took no pains to pub- 
244 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



IX 



lish the proceeding, were accused of wishing to 
make a sensation ; of doing a horrible and unfeel- 
ing thing, etc. The truth was, that the nearest 
connexions, both of Mr. Shelley and Mr. Williams, 
wished to have their remains interred in regular 
places of burial ; and that for this purpose they 
could be removed in no other manner. Such being 
the case, it is admitted that the mourners did not 
refuse themselves the little comfort of supposing 
that lovers of books and antiquity, like Mr. Shel- 
ley and his friend, would not have been sorry to 
foresee this part of their fate. Among the mate- 
rials for burning, as many of the gracefuller and 
more classical articles as could be procured, — 
frankincense, wine, etc. — were not forgotten. 

" The proceedings of the next day, with Mr. 
Shelley's remains, exactly resembled those of the 
foregoing, with the exception of there being two 
assistants less. On both days, the extraordinary 
beauty of the flame arising from the funeral pile 
was noticed. Mr. Shelley's remains were taken 
to Rome, and deposited in the Protestant burial- 
ground, near those of a child he had lost in that 
city, and of Mr. Keats. It is the cemetery he 
speaks of in the preface to his Elegy on the death 
of his young friend, as calculated to " make one 
in love with death, to think that one should be 
buried in so sweet a place." — The generous reader 
will be glad to hear, that the remains of Mr. Shel- 
ley were attended to their final abode by some of 
the most respectable English residents in Rome. 
He was sure to awaken the sympathy of gallant 
and accomplished spirits wherever he went, alive 
or dead. The remains of Mr. Williams were taken 
to England. Mr. Williams was a very intelligent, 
good-hearted man, and his death was deplored by 
friends worthy of him. " 

Shelley was thirty years old when he died. He 
was tall and slender in his figure, and stooped a 
little in the shoulders, though perfectly well-made. 
The expression of his features was mild and good. 
His complexion was fair, and his cheeks colored. 
His eyes were large and lively; and the whole 
turn of his face, which v/as small, was graceful 
and full of sensibility. He was subject to attacks 
of a disorder which forced him to lie down (if in 
the open air, upon the ground) until they were 
6ver ; yet he bore them kindly and without a mur- 
mur. His disposition was amiable, and even the 
word " pious" has been applied to his conduct as 
regarded others, to his love of M^re, and to his 
ideas of that power which, jjm^ades all things. 
He was very fond of musie;^ frugal in all but his 
charities, often to considerable self-denial, and 
loved to do acts of generosity and kindness. He 
was a first-rate scholar ; and besides the languages 
of antiquity, well understood the German, Ital- 
ian and French tongues. He was an excellent 
metaphysician, and was no slight adept in natural 



philosophy. He loved to study in the open air, in 
the shadow of the wood, or by the side of the 
water-fall. In short, he was a singular illustration 
of the force of natural genius, bursting the bonds 
of birth and habit, and the conventional ties of the 
circle in which he was born, and soaring high, 
under the direction of his own spirit, chartless and 
alone. He steered by his own ideas of justice ; 
hence he was ever at war with things which rea- 
son and right had no hand in establishing, — radi- 
cally wrong in themselves perhaps, or to be changed 
for the better, but by usage become second nature 
to society, or at least to that far larger proportion 
of it which lives by custom alone. He had no 
value for what the mass of men estimate as desi- 
rable ; a seat in the senate he declined, though he 
might have enriched himself by its acceptance. 
He seemed to commit the mistake of others before 
him, in dreaming of the perfectibility of man. An 
anecdote is related of him that, at a ball of fashion 
where he was a leading character, and the most 
elegant ladies of the crowd expected the honor of 
being led out by him, he selected a friendless girl 
for a partner who was scorned by her companions, 
having lain under the imputation of an unlucky 
mishap some time preceding. 

The books in which he commonly read were 
the Greek writers ; in the tragedians particularly, 
he was deeply versed. The Bible was a work of 
great admiration with him, and his frequent study. 
For the character of Christ and his doctrines he 
had great reverence, the axiom of the founder of 
Christianity being that by which he endeavored to 
shape his course in despite of all obstacles. In pe- 
cimiary matters he was liberal. Uncharitable in- 
deed must that man have been who doubted the 
excellence of his intentions, or charged him with 
wilful error : who then shall judge a being of whom 
this may be said, save his Creator — who that lives 
in the way he sees others live, without regard to 
the mode being right or wrong, shall charge him 
with crime, who tries to reconcile together his life 
and his aspirations after human perfectibility ? 
Shelley had his faults as well as other men, but ot 
the whole it appears that his deviations from the 
vulgar routine form the great sum of the charges 
made against him. His religious sentiments were 
between him and his God. 

The writings of Shelley are too deep to be popu- 
lar, but there is no reader possessing taste and 
judgment, who will not do homage to his pen. He 
was a poet of great power : he felt intensely, and 
his works everywhere display the ethereal spirit 
of genius of a rare order — abstract, perhaps, but 
not less powerful ; his is the poetry of intellect, 
not that of the Lakers ; his theme is the high one 
of intellectual nature and lofty feeling, not of wag- 
oners or idiot children. His faults in writing are 
obvious, but equally so are his beauties. He is too 
245 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



much of a philosopher, and dwells too much upon 
favorite images, that draw less upon our sympa- 
thies than those of social life. His language is 
lofty, and no one knows better how to cull, arrange, 
and manage the syllables of his native tongue. He 
thoroughly understood metrical composition. 

Shelley began to publish prematurely, as we 
have already stated, at the early age of 15 ; but it 
was not till about the year 1811 or 1812 that he 
seems first to have devoted his attention to poetical 
composition. To enumerate his poetical works 
here would be a useless task, as they will be found 
in the collection of his poems appended. His 
"Prometheus Unbound" is a noble work; his 
"Cenci" and " Adonais" are his principal works 
in point of merit. Love was one of his favorite 
themes, as it is with all poets, and he has ever 
touched it with a master-hand. The subject of the 
" Cenci" is badly selected, but it is nobly written, 
and admirably sustained. Faults it has, but they 
are amply redeemed by its beauties. It is only 
from the false clamor raised against him during 
his life-time, that his poems have not been more 
read. No scholar, no one having the slightest pre- 
tensions to true taste in poetry, can be without 
them. It may be boldly prophesied that they will 
one day be more read than they have ever yet 
been, and more understood. In no nation but Eng- 
land do the reading public suffer others to judge 
for them, and pin their ideas of the defects or 
beauties of their national writers upon the partial 
diatribes of hired pens, and the splenetic outpour- 
ings of faction. It is astonishing how the nation 
of Newton and Locke is thus contented to suffer 
itself to be deceived and misled by literary Ma- 
chiavelism. 

The following preface to the author's Posthu- 
mous Poems contains much to interest the admi- 
rers of his genius. The circumstance of its being 
from the pen of Mrs. Shelley will still farther re- 
commend it : — 

*' It had been my wish, on presenting the pubUc 
with the Posthumous Poems of Mr. Shelley, to 
have accompanied them by a biographical notice ; 
as it appeared to me, that at this moment a narra- 
tion of the events of my husband's life would come 
more gracefully from other hands than mine, I 
applied to Mr. Leigh Hunt. The distinguished 
friendship that Mr. Shelley felt for him, and the 
enthusiastic affection with which Mr. Leigh Hunt 
clings to his friend's memory, seemed to point 
him out as the person best calculated for such an 
undertaking. His absence from this country, 
which prevented our mutual explanation, has un- 
fortimately rendered my scheme abortive. I do 
not doubt but that, on some other occasion, he will 
pay this tribute to his lost friend, and sincerely re- 
gret that the volume which I edit has not been 
honored by its insertion. 



" The comparative solitude in which Mr. Shelley 
lived, was the occasion that he was personally 
known to few ; and his fearless enthusiasm in the 
cause, which he considered the most sacred upon 
earth, the improvement of the moral and physicEil 
state of mankind, was the chief reason why he, 
like other illustrious reformers, was pursued by 
hatred and calumny. No man was ever more de- 
voted than he, to the endeavor of making those 
around him happy ; no man ever possessed friends 
more unfeignedly attached to him. The ungrate- 
ful world did not feel his loss, and the gap it made 
seemed to close as quickly over his memory as 
the murderous sea above his living frame. Here- 
afler men will lament that his transcendent pow- 
ers of intellect were extinguished before they had 
bestowed on them their choicest treasures. To his 
friends his loss is irremediable : the wise, the 
brave, the gentle, is gone for ever ! He is to them 
as a bright vision, whose radiant track, left behind 
in the memory, is worth all the realities that so- 
ciety can afford. Before the critics contradict me, 
let them appeal to any one who had ever known 
him : to see him was to love him ; and his pres- 
ence, like Ithuriel's spear, was alone sufficient to 
disclose the falsehood of the tale, which his ene 
mies whispered in the ear of the ignorant world. 

" His life was spent in the contemplation of na- 
ture, in arduous study, or in acts of kindness and 
affection. He was an elegant scholar and a pro- 
foimd metaphysician: without possessing much 
scientific knowledge, he was unrivalled in the 
justness and extent of his observations on natural 
objects ; he knew every plant by its name, and 
was familiar with the history and habits of every 
production of the earth ; he could interpret with- 
out a fault each appearance in the sky, and the 
varied phenomena of heaven and earth filled him 
with deep emotion. He made his study and read- 
ing-room of the shadowed copse, the stream, the 
lake and the water-fall. Ill health and continual 
pain preyed upon his powers ; and the solitude in 
which we lived, particularly on our first arrival in 
Italy, although congenial to his feelings, must fre- 
quently have weighed upon his spirits : those beau- 
tifiil and affecting ' Lines, written in dejection at 
Naples,' were composed at such an intelrval ; but 
when in health, his spirits were buoyant and 
youthful to an extraordinary degree. 

" Such was his love for nature, that every page 
of his poetry is associated in the minds of his 
friends with the loveliest scenes of the countries 
which he inhabited. In early life he visited the 
most beautiful parts of this country and Ireland. 
Afterwards the Alps of Switzerland became his 
inspirers. 'Prometheus Unbound' was written 
among the deserted and flower-grown ruins of 
Rome ; and when he made his home under the 
Pisan hills, their roofless recesses harbored him as 
246 



MEMOIR OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



XI 



he composed 'The Witch of Atlas' ' Adonais,' and 
' Hellas. ' In the wild but beautiful Bay of Spezia, 
the winds and waves which he loved became his 
playmates. His days were chiefly spent on the 
water ; the management of his boat, its alterations 
and improvements, were his principal occupation. 
At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the 
calm sea, he often went alone in his little shallop 
to the rocky caves that bordered it, and sitting be- 
neath their shelter wrote ' The Triumph of Life,' 
the last of his productions. The beauty but 
strangeness of this lonely place, the refined plea- 
sure which he felt in the companionship of a few 
selected friends, our entire sequestration from the 
rest of the world, all contributed to render this 
period of his life one of continued enjoyment. I 
am convinced that the two months we passed there 
were the happiest he had ever known : his health 
even rapidly improved, and he was never better 
than when I last saw him, full of spirits and joy, 
embark for Leghorn, that he might there welcome 
Leigh Hunt to Italy. I was to have accompanied 
him, but illness confined me to my room, and thus 
put the seal on my misfortune. His vessel bore 
out of sight with a favorable wind, and I remained 
awaiting his return by the breakers of that sea 
which was about to ingulf him. 

" He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind 
offices towards his friend, and enjoying with keen 
delight the renewal of their intercourse. He then 
embarked with Mr. Williams, the chosen and 
beloved sharer of his pleasures and of his fate, to 
return to us. We waited for them in vain ; the 
sea by its restless moaning seemed to desire to in- 
form us of what we would not learn : but a 

veil may well be drawn over such misery. The 
real anguish of these moments transcended all the 
fictions that the most glowing imagination ever 
portrayed: our seclusion, the savage nature of the 
inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our 
immediate vicinity to the troubled sea, combined 



to imbue with strange horror our days of uncer- 
tainty. The truth was at last known, — a truth 
that made our loved and lovely Italy appear a tomb, 
its sky a pall. Every heart echoed the deep lament; 
and my only consolation was in the praise and 
earnest love that each voice bestowed and each 
countenance demonstrated for him we had lost, — 
not, I fondly hope, for ever : his imearthly and 
elevated nature is a pledge of the continuation of 
his being, although in an altered form. Rome re- 
ceived his ashes ; they are deposited beneath its 
weed-grown wall, and 'the world's sole monu- 
ment' is enriched by his remains. 

" ' Julian and Maddalo,' ' The Witch of Atlas,' 
and most of the Translations, were written some 
years ago, and, with the exception of 'The Cyclops,' 
and the Scenes from the 'Magico Prodigioso,' 
may be considered as having received the author's 
ultimate corrections. ' The Trimnph of Life ' was 
his last work, and was left in so unfinished a state, 
that I arranged it in its present form with great 
difficulty. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, 
written on the spur of the occasion, and never re- 
touched, I found among his manuscript books, and 
have carefully copied : I have subjoined, whenever 
I have been able, the date of their composition. 

" I do not know whether the critics will repre- 
hend the insertion of some of the most imperfect 
among these ; but I frankly own, that I have been 
more actuated by the fear lest any monument of 
his genius should escape me, than the wish of pre- 
senting nothing but what was complete to the fas- 
tidious reader. I feel secure that the Lovers of 
Shelley's Poetry (who know how, more than any 
other poet of the present day, every line and word 
he wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will 
pardon and thank me : I consecrate this volume 
to them. 

" Mary W. Shelley. 



" Londotif June ls<, 1824. 



247 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 



A POEM. 
IN TWELVE CANTOES. 



PREFACE. 



The Poem which I now present to the world, is an 
attempt from which I scarcely dare to expect success, 
and in which a writer of established fame might fail 
without disgrace. It is an experiment on the temper 
of the public mind, as to how far a thirst for a hap- 
pier condition of moral and political society survives, 
among the enlightened and refined, the tempests 
which have shaken the age in which we live. I 
have sought to enhst the harmony of metrical lan- 
guage, the ethereal combinations of the fancy, the 
rapid and subtle transitions of human passion, all 
those elements which essentially compose a Poem, 
in the cause of a liberal and comprehensive morahty ; 
and in the view of kindling within the bosoms of my 
readers, a virtuous enthusiasm for those doctrines of 
liberty and justice, that faith and hope in something 
good, which neither violence, nor misrepresentation, 
nor prejudice, can ever totally extinguish among 
mankind. 

For this purpose I ha^^e chosen a story of human 
passion in its most universal character, diversified 
with moving and romantic adventures, and appeal- 
ing, in contempt of all artificial opinions or institu- 
tions, to the common sympathies of every human 
breast. I have made no attempt to recommend the 
motives which I would substitute for those at present 
governing mankind, by methodical and systematic 
argument. I would only awaken the feehngs, so that 
the reader should see the beauty of true virtue, and 
be incited to those inquiries which have led to my 
moral and political creed, and that of some of the 
sublimest intellects in the world. The Poem there- 
fore (with the exception of the first Canto, which is 
purely introductory), is narrative, not didactic. It is 
a succession of pictures illustrating the growth and 
progress of individual mind aspiring after excellence, 
and devoted to the love of mankind ; its influence in 
refining and making pure the most daring and un- 
common impulses of the imagination, the understand- 
ing, and the senses ; its impatience at " all the op- 
pressions which are done under the sun ;" its tend- 
ency to awaken public hope, and to enlighten and 
2G 



improve mankind ; the rapid effects of the applica- 
tion of that tendency ; the awakening of an immense 
nation from their slavery and degradation to a true 
sense of moral dignity and freedom ; the bloodless 
dethronement of their oppressors, and the unveiling of 
the religious frauds by which they had been deluded 
into submission; the tranquilHty of successful pa- 
triotism, and the universal toleration and benevolence 
of true philanthropy ; the treachery and barbarity of 
hired soldiers ; vice not the object of punishment and 
hatred, but kindness and pity; the faithlessness of 
tyrants ; the confederacy of the Rulers of the World, 
and the restoration of the expelled Dynasty by for- 
eign arms ; the massacre and extermination of the 
Patriots, and the victory of established power ; the 
consequences of legitimate despotism, civil war, fam- 
ine, plague, superstition, and an utter extinction of 
the domestic affections ; the judicial murder of the 
advocates of Liberty ; the temporary triumph of op- 
pression, that secure earnest of its final and inevita- 
ble fall ; the transient nature of ignorance and error, 
and the eternity of genius and virtue. Such is the 
series of delineations of which the Poem consists. 
And if the lofty passions with which it has been my 
scope to distinguish this story, shall not excite in the 
reader a generous impulse, an ardent thirst for ex- 
cellence, an interest profound and strong, such as 
belongs to no meaner desire — let not the failure be 
imputed to a natural unfitness for human sympathy 
in these sublime and animated themes. It is the busi- 
ness of the poet to communicate to others the plea- 
sure and enthusiasm arising out of those images and 
feelings, in the vivid presence of which within his 
own mind, consists at once his inspiration and his 
reward. 

The panic which, like an epidemic transport, seized 
upon all classes of men during the excesses conse- 
quent upon the French Revolution, is gradually giving 
place to sanity. It has ceased to be believed, that 
whole generations of mankind ought to consign them- 
selves to a hopeless inheritance of ignorance and 
misery, because a nation of men who had been dupes 
and slaves for centuries, were incapable of conduct- 
ing themselves with the wisdom and tranquillity of 
freemen so soon as some of their fetters were partially 
loosened. That their conduct could not have been 
249 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



marked by any other character than ferocity and 
thoughtlessness, is the historical fact from which lib- 
erty derives all its recommendations, and falsehood 
the worst features of its deformity. There is a reflux 
in the tide of human things, which bears the ship- 
wrecked hopes of men into a secure haven, after the 
storms are past. Methinks, those who now live have 
survived an age of despair. 

The French Revolution may be considered as one 
of those manifestations of a general state of feeling 
among civilized mankind, produced by a defect of 
correspondence between the knowledge existing in 
society and the improvement or gradual abolition of 
political institutions. The year 1788 may be assumed 
as the epoch of one of the most important crises pro- 
duced by this feeling. The sympathies connected 
with that event extended to every bosom. The most 
generous and amiable natures were those which par- 
ticipated the most extensively in these sympathies. 
But such a degree of unmingled good was expected, 
as it was impossible to realize. If the Revolution had 
been in every respect prosperous, then misrule and 
superstition would lose half their claims to our ab- 
horrence, as fetters which the captive can unlock 
with the slightest motion of his fingers, and which do 
not eat with poisonous rust into the soul. The re- 
vulsion occasioned by the atrocities of the dema- 
gogues and the re-establishment of successive tyr- 
annies in France was terrible, and felt in the remotest 
comer of the civilized world. Could they listen to 
the plea of reason who had groaned under the calam- 
ities of a social state, according to the provisions of 
which, one man riots in luxury whilst another fam- 
ishes for want of bread ? Can he who the day before 
was a trampled slave, suddenly become liberal-mind- 
ed, forbearing, and independent ? This is the conse- 
quence of the habits of a state of society to be pro- 
duced by resolute perseverance and indefatigable 
hope, and long-sufTering and long-believing courage, 
and the systematic efforts of generations of men of 
intellect and virtue. Such is the lesson which ex- 
perience teaches now. But on the first reverses of hope 
in the progress of French liberty, the sanguine eager- 
ness for good overleapt the solution of these questions, 
and for a time extinguished itself in the unexpected- 
ness of their result. Thus many of the most ardent 
and tender-hearted of the worshippers of public good, 
have been morally ruined by what a partial glimpse 
of the events they deplored, appeared to show as the 
melancholy desolation of all their cherished hopes. 
Hence gloom and misanthropy have become the char- 
acteristics of the age in which we live, the solace of 
a disappointment that unconsciously finds relief only 
in the wilful exaggeration of its own despair This 
influence has tainted the literature of the age with the 
hopelessness of the minds from which it flows. Meta- 
physics,* and inquiries into moral and political science, 
have become little else than vain attempts to revive 
exploded superstitions, or sophisms like those t of Mr. 
Malthus, calculated to lull the oppressors of mankind 
into a security of everlasting triumph. Our works 



* I oughtto except Sir W. Drummond's "Academical Ques- 
tions ;" a volume of very acute and powerful metaphysical 
criticism. 

t It is remarkable, as a symptom of the revival of public 
hope, that Mr. Malthus has assigned, in the later editions of his 
work, an indefinite dominion to moral restraint over the prin- 
ciple of population. This concession answers all the inferences 
from his doctrine unfavorable to human improvement, and 
reduces the "Essay on Population^' to a commentary illustra- 
tive of the unanswerableness of " Political Justice.^' 



of fiction and poetry have been overshadowed by the 
same infectious gloom. But mankind appear to me 
to be emerging from their trance. I am aware, me- 
thinks, of a slow, gradual, silent change. In that 
belief I have composed the following Poem. 

I do not presume to enter into competition with 
our greatest contemporary Poets. Yet I am unwilling 
to tread in the footsteps of any who have preceded 
me. I have sought to avoid the imitation of any 
style of language or versification peculiar to the origin- 
al minds of which it is the character, designing that 
even if what I have produced be worthless, it should 
still be properly my own. Nor have I permitted any 
system relating to mere v/ords, to divert the attention 
of the reader from whatever interest I may have 
succeeded in creating, to my own ingenuity in con- 
triving to disgust them according to the rules of criti- 
cism. I have simply clothed my thoughts in what 
appeared to me the most obvious and appropriate 
language. A person familiar with nature, and with 
the most celebrated productions of the human mind, 
can scarcely err in following the instinct, with re- 
spect to selection of language, produced by that 
familiarity. 

There is an education peculiarly fitted for a Poet, 
without which, genius and sensibility can hardly fill 
the circle of their capacities. No education indeed 
can entitle to this appellation a dull and unobservant 
mind, or one, though neither dull nor unobservant, in 
which the channels of communication between 
thought and expression have been obstructed or 
closed. How far it is my fortune to belong to either 
of the latter classes, I cannot know. I aspire to be 
something better. The circumstances of my acci- 
dental education have been favorable to this am- 
bition. I have been familiar from boyhood with 
mountains and lakes, and the sea, and the solitude of 
forests ; danger which sports upon the brink of pre- 
cipices, has been my playmate. I have trodden the 
glaciers of the Alps, and lived under the eye of 
Mont Blanc. I have been a wanderer among dis- 
tant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers, and 
seen the sun rise and set, and the stars come forth, 
whilst I have sailed night and day down a rapid 
stream among mountains. I have seen populous 
cities, and have watched the passions which rise and, 
spread, and sink and change amongst assembled 
multitudes of men. I have seen the theatre of the 
more visible ravages of tyranny and war, cities and 
villages reduced to scattered groups of black and roof^ 
less houses, and the naked inhabitants sitting famished 
upon their desolated thresholds. I have conversed with 
living men of genius. The poetry of ancient Greece 
and Rome, and modern Italy, and our own country, 
has been to me like external nature, a passion and an 
enjoyment. Such are the sources from which the 
materials for the imagery of my Poem have been 
drawTi. I have considered Poetry in its most com- 
prehensive sense, and have read the Poets and the 
Historians, and the MetaphysiciansJ whose writings 
have been accessible to me, and have looked upon 
the beautiful and majestic scenery of the earth as 
common sources of those elements which it is the 
province of the Poet to embody and combine. Yet 
the experience and the feelings to which I refer, do 
not in themselves constitute men Poets, but only 

X In this sense there may be such a thing as perfectibility in 
works of fiction, notwithstanding the concession often made by 
the advocates of human improvement, that perfectibility is a 
term applicable only to science. 

250 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



3 



prepares Ihem to be the auditors of those who are. 
ifow far I shall be found to possess that more essen- 
tial attribute of Poetry, the power of awakening in 
others sensations like those which animate my own 
bosom, is that which, to speak sincerely, I know not; 
and which, with an acquiescent and contented spirit, 
I expect to be taught by the effect which I shall pro- 
duce upon those whom I now address. 

I have avoided, as I have said before, the imitation 
of any contemporary style. But there must be a 
lesemblance which does not depend upon their own 
vi^ill, between all the writers of any particular age. 
rhey cannot escape from subjection to a common in- 
fluence which arises out of an infinite combination 
o£ circumstances belonging to the times in which 
they live, though each is in a degree the author of 
the very influence by which his being is thus per- 
vaded. Thus, the tragic Poets of the age of Peri- 
cles; the Italian revivers of ancient learning; those 
mighty intellects of our own country that succeeded 
the Reformation, the translators of the Bible, Shak- 
epeare, Spenser, the Dramatists of the reign of Eliza- 
beth, and Lord Bacon ;* the colder spirits of the in- 
terval that succeeded ; — all, resemble each other, and 
differ from every other in their several classes. In 
this view of things, Ford can no more be called the 
imitator of Shakspeare, than Shakspeare the imitator 
of Ford. There were perhaps few other points of 
resemblance between these two men, than that which 
the universal and inevitable influence of their age 
produced. And this is an influence which neither 
the meanest scribbler, nor the sublimest genius of 
any era, can escape ; and which I have not attempt- 
ed to escape. 

I have adopted the stanza of Spenser (a measure 
inexpressibly beautiful), not because I consider it a 
finer model of poetical harmony than the blank verse 
of Shakspeare and Milton, but because in the latter 
there is no shelter for mediocrity : you must either 
succeed or fail. This perhaps an aspiring spirit should 
desire. But I was enticed, also, by the brilliancy 
and magnificence of sound which a mind that has 
been nourished upon musical thoughts, can produce 
by a just and harmonious arrangement of the pauses 
of thiji measure. Yet there will be found some in- 
stances where I have completely failed in this at- 
tempt, and one, which I here request the reader to 
consider as an erratum, where there is left most in- 
advertently an alexandrine in the middle of a stanza. 

But in this, as in every other respect, I have writ- 
ten fearlessly. It is the misfortune of this age, that 
its Writers, too thoughtless of immortality, are ex- 
quisitely sensible to temporary praise or blame. They 
write with the fear of Reviews before their eyes. 
This system of criticism sprang up in that torpid in- 
terval when Poetry Avas not. Poetry, and the art 
which professes to regulate and limit its powers, can- 
not subsist together. Longinus could not have been 
the contemporary of Homer, nor Boileau of Horace. 
Yet this species of criticism never presumed to as- 
sert an understanding of its own : it has always, un- 
like true science, followed, not preceded the opinion 
of mankind, and would even now bribe with worth- 
less adulation some of our greatest Poets to impose 
gratuitous fetters on their own imaginations, and 
become unconscious accomplices in the daily murder 
of all genius either not so aspiring or not so fortunate 

* Milton stands alone in tlie age which he illumined. 



as their own. I have sought therefore to write, as I 
believe that Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton wrote, 
with an utter disregard of anonymous censure. I 
am certain that calumny and misrepresentation, 
though it may move me to compassion, cannot dis- 
turb my peace. I shall understand the expressive 
silence of those sagacious enemies who dare not 
trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavor to ex- 
tract from the midst of insult, and contempt, and 
maledictions, those admonitions which may tend to 
correct whatever imperfections such censurers may 
discover in this my first serious appeal to the Public. 
If certain Critics were as clear-sighted as they are 
malignant, how great would be the benefit to be de- 
rived from their virulent writings ! As it is, I fear I 
shall be malicious enough to be amused with their 
paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the Pub- 
lic judge that my composition is worthless, I shall 
indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton 
received his crown of immortality, and shall seek to 
gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which may 
nerve me to some new enterprise of thought which 
may not be worthless. I cannot conceive that Lucre- 
tius, when he meditated that poem whose doctrines 
are yet the bases of our metaphysical knowledge, 
and whose eloquence has been the wonder of man- 
kind, wrote in awe of such censure as the hired 
sophists of the impure and superstitious noblemen 
of Rome might affix to what he should produce. It 
was at the period when Greece was led captive, and 
Asia made tributary to the Republic, fast verging it- 
self to slavery and ruin, that a multitude of Syrian 
captives, bigoted to the worship of their obscene 
Ashtaroth, and the unworthy successors of Socrates 
and Zeno, found there a precarious subsistence by 
administering, under the name of freedmen, to the 
vices and vanities of the great. These wretched 
men were skilled to plead, with a superficial but 
plausible set of sophisms, in favor of that contempt 
for virtue which is the portion of slaves, and that 
faith in portents, the most fatal substitute for benevo- 
lence in the imaginations of men, which arising from 
the enslaved communities of the East, then first be- 
gan to overwhelm the western nations in its stream. 
Were these the kind of men whose disapprobation 
the wise and lofty-minded Lucretius should have re- 
garded with a salutary awe ? The latest and perhaps 
the meanest of those who follow in his foootsteps, 
would disdain to hold life on such conditions. 

The Poem now presented to the Public occupied 
little more than six months in the composition. That 
period has been devoted to the task with unremitting 
ardor and enthusiasm. I have exercised a watchful 
and earnest criticism on my work as it grew under 
my hands. I would willingly have sent it forth to 
the world with that perfection which long labor and 
revision is said to bestow. But I found that if I 
should gain something in exactness by this method, I 
might lose much of the newness and energy of 
imagery and language as it flowed fresh from my 
mind. And although the mere composition occupied 
no more than six months, the thoughts thus arranged 
were slowly gathered in as many years. 

I trust that the reader will carefully distinguish 
between those opinions which have a dramatic pro- 
priety in reference to the characters which they are 
designed to elucidate, and such as are properly my 
own. The erroneous and degrading idea which men 
have conceived of a Supreme Being, for instance, is 
851 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself. 
The beUef which some superstitious persons whom 
I have brought upon the stage entertain of the Deity, 
as injurious to the character of his benevolence, is 
widely different from my own. In recommending 
also a great and important change in the spirit which 
animates the social institutions of mankind, I have 
avoided all flattery to those violent and malignant 
passions of our nature, which are ever on the watch 
to mingle with and to alloy the most beneficial in- 
novations. There is no quarter given to Revenge, or 
Envy, or Prejudice. Love is celebrated everywhere 
as the sole law which should govern the moral world. 



DEDICATION. 



There is no danger to a man, that knows 
"What life and death is: there 's not any law 
Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law. 

Chapman. 



TO MARY 



So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home ; 
As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become 
A star among the stars of mortal night, 
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light, 

2. 

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour, 
Is ended, — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
Or where with sound like many voices sweet, 
Water-falls leap among wild islands green. 
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 

3. 

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, 

when first 
The clouds which wrap this world from youth did 

pass. 
I do remember well the hour which burst 
My spirit's sleep : a fresh May-dawn it was, 
WTien I walk'd forth upon the glittering grass. 
And wept, I knew not why ; until there rose 
From the near school-room, voices, that, alas ! 
Were but one echo from a world of woes — 
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. 
4. 
And then I clasp'd my hands and look'd around — 
— But none was near to mock my streaming eyes. 
Which pour'd their warm drops on the surmy 

ground — 
So without shame, I spake : — " I will be wise, 
And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies 
Such power, for I grow weary to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyrarmize 
Without reproach or check." I then controll'd 
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold, 



5. 

And from that hour did I with earnest thought 
Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore, 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught 
I cared to learn, but from that secret store 
Wrought linked armor for my soul, before 
It might walk forth to war among mankind ; 
Thus power and hope were strengthen'd more 

and more 
Within me, till there came upon my mind 
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 



Alas, that love should be a blight and snare 
To those who seek all sympathies in one ! — 
Such once I sought in vain ; then black despair, 
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 
Over the world in which I moved alone : — 
Yet never found I one not false to me, 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone 
Which crush'd and wither'd mine, that could not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee 

7. 

Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart 
Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain ; 
How beautiful and calm and free thou wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain 
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain. 
And walked as free as light the clouds among, 
Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung 
To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long! 

8. 

No more alone through the world's wilderness. 
Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
I joumey'd now : no more companionless. 
Where solitude is like despair, I went. — 
There is the wisdom of a stern content 
When Poverty can blight the just and good. 
When Infamy dares mock the innocent, 
And cherish'd friends turn with the multitude 
To trample : this was ours, and we imshaken stood ! 



Now has descended a serener hour, 

And with inconstant fortune, friends return ; 

Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the 

power 
Which says : — Let scorn be not repaid with scorn 
And from thy side two gentle babes are bom 
To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn ; 
And these dehghts, and thou have been to me 
The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. 

10. 

Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers 
But strike the prelude of a loftier strain ? 
Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers 
Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, 
Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign. i 
And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway i 
Holier than was Amphion's ? I would fain 
Reply in hope — but I am worn away, ' ' 

And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey I 
252 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



11. 

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak: 
Time may interpret to his silent years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, 
And in the light thine ample forehead wears, 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears, 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is whisper'd, to subdue my fondest fears : 
And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see 
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 

12. 

They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth, 
Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child. 
I wonder not — for One then left this earth 
Whose life was like a setting planet mild, 
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled 
Of its departing glory ; still her fame 
Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim 
The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name. 

13. 

One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, 
Which was the echo of three thousand years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it, 
As some lone man who in a desert hears 
The music of his home : — unwonted fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, 
And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares. 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space 
Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling- 
place. 

14. 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my cry — 
If men must rise and stamp with fury blind 
On his pure name who loves them, — thou and I, 
Sweet friend ! can look from our tranquillity 
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night, — 
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by 
Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's 
sight. 
That burn from year to year with unextinguish'd light. 



CANTO I. 



When the last hope of trampled France had fail'd 
Like a brief dream of unremaining glory, 
From visions of despair I rose, and scaled 
The peak of an aerial promontory. 
Whose cavem'd base with the vext surge washoary; 
And saw the golden dawn break forth, and waken 
Each cloud, and every wave : — but transitory 
The calm : for sudden, the firm earth was shaken. 
As if by the last wreck its frame were overtaken. 



II. 

So, as I stood, one blast of muttering thunder 
Burst in far peals along the waveless deep. 
When, gathering fast, around, above and under, 
Long trains of tremulous mist began to creep. 
Until their complicating lines did steep 
The orient sun in shadow : — not a sound 
Was heard ; one horrible repose did keep 
The forests and the floods, and all around 
Darkness more dread than night was pour'd upon 
the ground. 

III. 

Hark! 'tis the rushing of a wind that sweeps 
Earth and the ocean. See ! the lightnings yawn 
Deluging Heaven with fire, and the lash'd deeps 
Glitter and boil beneath : it rages on. 
One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves upthrown, 
Lightning, and hail, and darkness eddying by. 
There is a pause — the sea-birds, that were gone 
Into their caves to shriek, come forth, to spy 
What calm has fall'n on earth, what light is in the sky. 

IV. 

For, where the irresistible storm had cloven 
That fearful darkness, the blue sky was seen 
Fretted with many a fair cloud interwoven 
Most delicately, and the ocean green. 
Beneath that opening spot of blue serene, 
Quiver'd like burning emerald : calm was spread 
On all below; but far on high, between 
Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds fled, 
Countless and swift as leaves on autumn's tempest 
shed. 

V. 

For ever, as the war became more fierce 
Between the whirlwinds and the rack on high, 
That spot grew more serene ; blue light did pierce 
The woof of those white clouds, which seem'd to lie 
Far, deep, and motionless; while through the sky 
The pallid semicircle of the moon 
Past on, in slow and moving majesty ; 
Its upper horn array'd in mists, which soon 
But slowly fled, like dew beneath the beams of noon. 

VI. 

I could not choose but gaze ; a fascination 
Dwelt in that moon, and sky, and clouds, which drew 
My fancy thither, and in expectation 
Of what I knew not, I remain'd : — the hue 
Of the white moon, amid that Heaven so blue, 
Suddenly stain'd with shadow did appear ; 
A speck, a cloud, a shape, approaching grew, 
Like a great ship in the sun's sinking sphere 
Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came anear. 

VII. 

Even like a bark, which from a chasm of mountains, 
Dark, vast, and overhanging, on a river 
Which there collects the strength of all its fountains, 
Comes forth, whilst with the speed its frame doth 

quiver. 
Sails, oars, and stream, tending to one endeavor; 
So, from that chasm of light a winged Form 
On all the winds of Heaven approaching ever 
Floated, dilating as it came : the storm 
Pursued it vdth fierce blasts, and lightnings swift and 

warm. 

253 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



VIII. 
A course precipitous, of dizzy speed, 
Suspending thought and breath; a monstrous sight! 
For in the air do I behold indeed 
An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight: — 
And now relaxing its impetuous flight, 
Before the aerial rock on which I stood, 
The Eagle, hovering, wheel'd to left and right, 
And hung with lingering wings over the flood, 
And startled with its yells the wide air's solitude. 

IX. 

A shaft of light upon its wings descended. 
And every golden feather gleam'd therein — 
Feather and scale inextricably blended. 
The Serpent's mail'd and many-color'd skin 
Shone through the plumes its coils were twined 

within 
By many a swollen and Icaotted fold, and high 
And far, the neck receding lithe and thin, 
Sustain'd a crested head, which warily 
Shifted and glanced before the Eagle's stedfast eye. 



Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling 
With clang of wings and scream, the Eagle sail'd 
Incessantly — sometimes on high concealing 
Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it fail'd, 
Droop'd through the air ; and still it shriek'd and 

wail'd. 
And casting back its eager head, with beak 
And talon unremittingly assail'd 
The wreathed Serpent, who did ever seek 
Upon his enemy's heart a mortal wound to wreak. 

XI. 

What life, what power, was kindled and arose 
Within the sphere of that appalling fray ! 
For, from the encounter of those wondrous foes, 
A vapor like the sea's suspended spray 
Hung gather'd : in the void air, far away, 
Floated the shatter'd plumes; bright scales did leap, 
Where'er the Eagle's talons made their way. 
Like sparks into the darkness ; — as they sweep, 
Blood stains the snowy foam of the tumultuous deep. 

XII 
Swift chances in that combat — many a check, 
And many a change, a dark and wild turmoil ; 
Sometimes the Snake around his enemy's neck 
Lock'd in stiff rings his adamantine coil. 
Until the Eagle, faint with pain and toil. 
Remitted his strong flight, and near the sea 
Languidly flutter'd, hopeless so to foil 
His adversary, who then rear'd on high 
His red and burning crest, radiant with victory. 

XIII. 
Then on the white edge of the bursting surge. 
Where they had sunk together, would the Snake 
Relax his suffocating grasp, and scourge 
The wind with his wild writhings ; for to break 
That chain of torment, the vast bird would shake 
The strength of his unconquerable wings 
As in despair, and with his sinewy neck. 
Dissolve in sudden shock those linked rings, 
Then soar— as swift as smoke from a volcano springs. 



XIV. 
Wile baffled wile, and strength encounter'd strength, 
Thus long, but unprevailing : — the event 
Of that portentous fight appear'd at length : 
Until the lamp of day was almost spent 
It had endured, when lifeless, stark, and rent, 
Hung high that mighty Serpent, and at last 
Fell to the sea, while o'er the continent, 
With clang of wings and scream the Eagle past, 
Heavily borne away on the exhausted blast. 

XV. 

And with it fled the tempest, so that ocean 
And earth and sky shone through the atmosphere — 
Only, 'twas strange to see the red commotion 
Of waves like mountains o'er the sinking sphere 
Of sunset sweep, and their fierce roar to hear 
Amid the calm : down the steep path I wound 
To the sea-shore — the evening was most clear 
And beautiful, and there the sea I found 
Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber bound. 



XVI. 

There was a Woman, beautiful as morning. 
Sitting beneath the rocks, upon the sand 
Of the waste sea — fair as one flower adorning 
An icy wilderness — each delicate hand 
Lay cross'd upon her bosom, and the band 
Of her dark hair had fall'n, and so she sate 
Looking upon the waves ; on the bare strand 
Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait. 
Fair as herself, like Love by Hope left desolate. 



XVII. 
It seem'd that this fair Shape had look'd upon 
That unimaginable fight, and now 
That her sweet eyes were weary of the sun. 
As brightly it illustrated her woe ; 
For in the tears which silently to flow 
Paused not, its lustre hung : she watching aye 
The foam- wreaths which the faint tide wove below 
Upon the spangled sands, groan'd heavily, 
And after every groan look'd up over the sea. 

XVIII. 
And when she saw the wounded Serpent make 
His path between the waves, her lips grew pale, 
Parted, and quiver'd ; the tears ceased to break 
From her immovable eyes ; no voice of wail 
Escaped her ; but she rose, and on the gale 
Loosening her star-bright robe and shadowy hair 
Pour'd forth her voice ; the caverns of the vale 
That open'd to the ocean, caught it there. 
And fiU'd with silver sounds the overflowing air. 

XIX. 

She spake in language whose strange melody 
Might not belong to earth. I heard, alone, 
What made its music more melodious be, 
The pity and the love of every tone ; 
But to the Snake those accents sweet were known 
His native tongue and hers ; nor did he beat 
The hoar spray idly then, but winding on 
Through the green shadows of the waves that meet 
Near to the shore, did pause beside her snowy feet. 
254 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



Then on the sands the Woman sate again, 
And wept and clasp'd her hands, and all between, 
Renew'd the unintelligible strain 
Of her melodious voice and eloquent mien ; 
And she unveil'd her bosom, and the green 
And glancing shadows of the sea did play 
O'er its marmoreal depth : — one moment seen, 
For ere the next, the Serpent did obey 
Her voice, and, coil'd in rest, in her embrace it lay. 

XXL 

Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes 
Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet fair. 
While yet the daylight lingereth in the skies 
Whick cleaves with arrowy beams the dark-red air. 
And said : To grieve is wise, but the despair 
Was weak and vain which led thee here from sleep : 
This shalt thou know, and more, if thou dost dare 
With me and with this Serpent, o'er the deep, 
A voyage divine and strange, companionship to keep. 

XXII. 

Her voice was like the wildest, saddest tone, 
Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard long ago. 
I wept. Shall this fair woman all alone 
Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go ? 
His head is on her heart, and who can know 
How soon he may devour his feeble prey ? — 
Such were my thoughts, when the tide 'gan to flow ; 
And that strange boat like the moon's shade did sway 
Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay. 

XXIII. 

A boat of rare device, which had no sail 
But its ovm curved prow of thin moonstone, 
Wrought like a web of texture fine and frail, 
To catch those gentlest winds which are not known 
To breathe, but by the steady speed alone, 
With which it cleaves the sparkling sea ; and now 
We are embark'd, the mountains hang and frown 
Over the starry deep that gleams below 
A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the waves we go. 

XXIV. 

And as we sail'd, a strange and awful tale 
That Woman told, like such mysterious dream 
As makes the slumberer's cheek with wonder pale! 
'Twas midnight, and around, a shoreless stream. 
Wide ocean roH'd, when that majestic theme 
Shrined in her heart found utterance, and she bent 
Her looks on mine ; those eyes a kindUng beam 
Of love divine into my spirit sent. 
And ere her lips could move, made the air eloquent. 

XXV. 
Speak not to me, but hear! much shalt thou learn, 
Much must remain unthought, and more untold, 
In the dark Future's ever-flowing urn : 
Know then, that from the depth of ages old 
Two Powers o'er mortal things dominion hold 
Ruling the world with a divided lot. 
Immortal, all pervading, manifold. 
Twin Genii, equal Gods — when life and thought 
Sprang forth, they burst the womb of inessential 
Naught. 



XXVI. ^ 

The earliest dweller of the world alone. 
Stood on the verge of chaos : Lo ! afar 
O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors shone, 
Sprung from the depth of its tempestuous jar : 
A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star 
Mingling their beams in combat — as he stood. 
All thoughts within his mind waged mutual war, 
In dreadful sympathy — when to the flood 
That fair Star fell, he turn'd and shed his brother's blood. 

XXVII. 

Thus evil triumph'd, and the Spirit of evil. 
One Power of many shapes which none may know. 
One Shape of many names ; the Fiend did revel 
In victory, reigning o'er a world of woe. 
For the new race of man went to and fro, 
Famish'd and homeless, lothed and lothing, wild, 
And hating good — for his immortal foe. 
He changed from starry shape, beauteous and mild, 
To a dire Snake, with man and beast unreconciled. 

XXVIII. 

The darkness lingering o'er the dawn of things, 
Was Evil's breath and life : this made him strong 
To soar aloft with overshadowing wings; 
And the great Spirit of Good did creep among 
The nations of mankind, and every tongue 
Cursed and blasphemed him as he past ; for none 
Knew good from evil, though their names were hung 
In mockery o'er the fane where many a groan, 

As King, and Lord, and God, the conquering Fiend did 
own. 

XXIX. 
The fiend, whose name was Legion; Death, Decay, 
Earthquake and Blight, and Want, and Madness pale, 
Winged and wan diseases, an array 
Numerous as leaves that strew the autumnal gale ; 
Poison, a snake in flowers, beneath the veil 
Of food and mirth, hiding his mortal head ; 
And, without whom all these might naught avail, 
Fear, Hatred, Faith, and Tyranny, who spread 

Those subtle nets which snare the living and the dead. 

XXX. 

His spirit is their power, and they his slaves 
In air, and light, and thought, and language dwell ; 
And keep their state from palaces to graves. 
In all resorts of men — invisible, 
But when, in ebon mirror. Nightmare fell 
To tyrant or impostor bids them rise. 
Black winged demon forms — whom, from the hell. 
His reign and dwelling beneath nether skies. 
He loosens to their dark and blasting ministries. 

XXXI. 

In the world's youth his empire was as firm 
As its foundations-^-soon the Spirit of Good, 
Though in the likeness of a lothesome worm, 
Sprang from the billows of the formless flood, 
Which shrank and fled ; and with that fiend of blood 
Renew'd the doubtful war — thrones then first shook, 
And earth's immense and trampled multitude, 
In hope on their own powers began to look, 
And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine shrine for- 
sook. 

255 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXXII. 

Then Greece arose, and to its bards and sages, 
In dream, the golden-pinion'd Genii came, 
Even where they slept amid the night of ages. 
Steeping their hearts in the divinest flame, 
Which thy breath kindled. Power of holiest name ! 
And oft in cycles since, when darkness gave 
New weapons to thy foe, their sunlike fame 
Upon the combat shone — a light to save, 
Like Paradise spread forth beyond the shadowy grave. 

XXXIII. 

Such is this conflict — when mankind doth strive 
With its oppressors in a strife of blood, 
Or when free thoughts, like lightnings, are alive ; 
And in each bosom of the multitude 
Justice and truth, with custom's hydra brood, 
Wage silent war ; — when priests and kings dissemble 
In smiles or frowns their fierce disquietude. 
When round pure hearts, a host of hopes assemble, 
The Snake and Eagle meet — the world's foundations 
tremble ! 

XXXIV. 
Thou hast beheld that fight — when to thy home 
Thou dost return, steep not its hearth in tears ; 
Though thou mayst hear that earth is now become 
The tyrant's garbage, which to his compeers. 
The vile reward of their dishonor'd years. 
He will dividing give. — The victor Fiend 
Omnipotent of yore, now quails, and fears 
His triumph dearly won, which soon will lend 
An impulse swift and sure to his approaching end. 

XXXV. 

List, stranger, list ! mine is a human form, 
Like that thou wearest — touch me — shrink not now! 
My hand thou feel'st is not a ghost's, but warm 
With human blood. — 'T was many years ago, 
Since first my thirsting soul aspired to know 
The secrets of this wondrous world, when deep 
My heart was pierced with sympathy, for woe 
Which could not be mine own — and thought did 
keep 
In dream, unnatural watch beside an infant's sleep. 

XXXVI. 

Woe could not be mine own, since far from men 
I dwelt, a free and happy orphan child. 
By the sea-shore, in a deep mountain glen ; 
And near the waves, and through the forests wild, 
I roam'd, to storm and darkness reconciled : 
For I was calm while tempest shook the sky : 
But when the breathless heavens in beauty smiled, 
I wept, sweet tears, yet too tumultuously 
For peace, and clasp'd my hands aloft in ecstasy. 

XXXVII. 

These were forebodings of my fate — ^before 
A woman's heart beat in my virgin breast 
It had been nurtured in divinest lore : 
A dying poet gave me books, and blest 
With wild but holy talk the sweet unrest 
In which I watch'd him as he died away — 
A youth with hoary hair — a fleeting guest 
Of our lone mountains — and this lore did sway 
My spirit like a storm, contending there alway. 



XXXVIII. 
Thus the dark tale which history doth unfold, 
I knew, but not, methinks, as others know, 
For they weep not ; and Wisdom had unroU'd 
The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal woe : 
To few can she that warning vision show, 
For I loved all things with intense devotion ; 
So that when Hope's deep source in fullest flow, 
Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant ocean 

Of human thoughts — mine shook beneath the wide 
emotion. 

XXXIX. 
When first the hving blood through all these veins 
Kindled a thought in sense, great France sprang 

forth, 
And seized, as if to break, the ponderous chains 
Which bind in woe the nations of the earth. 
I saw, and started from my cottage hearth ; 
And to the clouds and waves in tameless gladness, 
Shriek'd, till they caught immeasurable mirth — 
And laugh'd in light and music: soon, sweet madness 

Was pour'd upon my heart, a soft and thrilling sadness. 

XL. 

Deep slumber fell on me : — my dreams were fire. 
Soft and delightful thoughts did rest and hover 
Like shadows o'er my brain ; and strange desire, 
The tempest of a passion, raging over 
My tranquil soul, its depths with light did cover, 
Which past ; and calm, and darkness, sweeter far 
Came — then I loved ; but not a human lover ! 
For when I rose from sleep, the Morning Star 
Shone through the woodbine wreaths which round 
my casement were. 

XLL 

'Twas like an eye which seem'd to smile on me. 
I watch'd, till by the sun made pale, it sank 
Under the billows of the heaving sea ; 
But from its beams deep love my spirit drank. 
And to my brain the boundless world now shrank 
Into one thought — one image — yes, for ever ! 
Even like the day-spring, pour'd on vapors dank, 
The beams of that one Star did shoot and quiver 
Through my benighted mind— and were extinguish'd 



XUI. 

The day past thus : at night, methought in dream 
A shape of speechless beauty did appear : 
It stood like light on a careering stream 
Of golden clouds which shook the atmosphere ; 
A winged youth, its radiant brow did wear 
The Morning Star : a wild dissolving bliss 
Over my frame he breathed, approaching near. 
And bent his eyes of kindling tenderness 
Near mine, and on my lips impress'd a lingering kiss. 

XLm. 

And said : a Spirit loves thee, mortal maiden. 
How wilt thou prove thy worth? Then joy and sleep 
Together fled, my soul was deeply laden. 
And to the shore I went to muse and weep ; 
But as I moved, over my heart did creep 
A joy less soft, but more profound and strong 
Than my sweet dream ; and it forbade to keep 
The path of the sea-shore : that Spirit's tongue 
Seem'd whispering in my heart, and bore my steps 
along. 

256 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



XLIV. 
How, to that vast and peopled city led, 
Which was a field of holy warfare then, 
I walk'd among the dying and the dead, 
And shared in fearless deeds with evil men. 
Calm as an angel in the dragon's den — 
How I braved death for liberty and truth. 
And spurn'd at peace, and power, and fame ; and 

when 
Those hopes had lost the glory of their youth, 
How sadly I return'd — might move the hearer's ruth : 

XLV. 
Warm tears throng fast! the tale may not be said — 
Know then, that when this grief had been subdued, 
I was not left, like othere, cold and dead ; 
The Spirit whom I loved in solitude 
Sustain'd his child : the tempest-shaken wood. 
The waves, the fountains, and the hush of night — 
These were his voice, and well I understood 
His smile divine, when the calm sea was bright 
With silent stars, and Heaven was breathless with 
delight. 

XLVI. 

In lonely glens amid the roar of rivers. 
When the dim nights were moonless, have I known 
Joys which no tongue can tell ; my pale lip quivers 
When thought revisits them : — know thou alone. 
That after many wondrous years were flown, 
I was awaken'd by a shriek of woe ; 
And over me a mystic robe was thrown, 
By viewless hands, and a bright star did glow 
Before my steps — the Snake then met his mortal foe. 

XLVII. 
Thou fearest not then the Serpent on thy heart ? 
Fear it ! she said, with brief and passionate cry. 
And spake no more : that silence made me start — 
I look'd, and we were sailing pleasantly. 
Swift as a cloud between the sea and sky, 
Beneath the rising moon seen fat away ; 
Mountains of ice, like sapphire, piled on high. 
Hemming the horizon round, in silence lay 
On the still waters — these we did approach alway. 

XLVin. 

And swift and swifter grew the vessel's motion. 
So that a dizzy trance fell on my brain — 
Wild music woke me : we had past the ocean 
Which girds the pole, Nature's remotest reign — 
And we glode fast o'er a pellucid plain 
Of waters, azure with the noon-tide day. 
Ethereal mountains shone around — a Fane 
Stood in the midst, girt by green isles which lay 
Oil the blue sunny deep, resplendent far away. 

XLIX. 

It was a Temple, such as mortal hand 
Has never built, nor ecstasy, nor dream, 
Rear'd in the cities of enchanted land : 
'Twas likest Heaven, ere yet day's purple stream 
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while the gleam 
Of the unrisen moon among the clouds 
Is gathering — when with many a golden beam 
The thronging constellations rush in crowds. 
Paving with fire the sky and the marmoreal floods. 
2H 



Like what may be conceived of this vast dome. 
When from the depths which thought can seldom 

pierce. 
Genius beholds it rise, his native home. 
Girt by the deserts of the Universe, 
Yet, nor in painting's light, or mightier verse. 
Or sculpture's marble language can invest 
That shape to mortal sense — such glooms immerse 
That incommunicable sight, and rest 
Upon the laboring brain and overburthen'd breast. 

LI. 

Winding among the lawny islands fair. 

Whose bloomy forests starr'd the shadowy deep, 

The wingless boat paused where an ivory stair 

Its fretwork in the crystal sea did steep. 

Encircling that vast Fane's aerial heap : 

We disembark'd, and through a poi-tal wide 

We pass'd — whose roof of moonstone carved, did 

keep 
A glimmering o'er tlie forms on every side. 

Sculptures like life and thought; immovable, deep- 
eyed. 

LII. 
We came to a vast hall, whose glorious roof 
Was diamond, which had drunk the lightning's sheen 
In darkness, and now pour'd it through the woof 
Of spell-inwoven clouds hung there to screen 
Its blinding splendor — through such veil was seen 
That work of subtlest power, divine and rare ; 
Orb above orb, with starry shapes between, 
And horned moons, and meteors strange and fair, 

On night-black columns poised — one hollow hemi- 
sphere ! 

LIII. 
Ten thousand columns in that quivering light 
Distinct — between whose shafts wound far away 
The long and labyrinthine aisles — more bright 
With their own radiance than the Heaven of Day ; 
And on the jasper walls around, there lay 
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought, 
Which did the Spirit's history display ; 
A tale of passionate change, divinely taught, 

Which, in their winged dance, unconscious Genii 
wrought. 

LIV. 
Beneath, there sate on many a sapphire throne, 
The Great, who had departed from manldnd, 
A mighty Senate ; — some, whose wliite hair shone 
Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful, and blind. 
Some, female forms, whose gestures beam'd with 

mind ; 
And ardent youths, and children bright and fair : 
And some had lyres whose strings were intertwined 
With pale and clinging flames, which ever there 

Waked faint yet thrilling sounds that pierced the 
crystal air. 

LV. 
One seat was vacant in the midst, a throne, 
Rear'd on a pyramid like sculptured flame. 
Distinct with circling steps which rested on 
Their own deep fire — soon as the Woman came 
Into that hall, she shriek'd the Spirit's name 
And fell ; and vanish'd slowly from the sight. 
Darkness arose from her dissolving frame, 
Which gathering, fill'd that dome of woven light, 

Blotting its sphered stars with supernatural mght. 
257 



10 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LVI. 

Then first, two glittering lights were seen to glide 
In circles on the amethystine floor, 
Small serpent eyes trailing from side to side, 
Like meteors on a river's grassy shore. 
They round each other roll'd, dilating more 
And more — then rose, commingling into one, 
One clear and mighty planet hanging o'er 
A cloud of deepest shadow, which was thrown 
Athwart the glowing steps and the crystalline throne. 

Lvn. 

The cloud which rested on that cone of flame 
Was cloven ; beneath the planet sate a Form, 
Fairer than tongue can speak or thought may frame. 
The radiance of whose limbs rose-like and warm 
Flow'd forth, and did with softest light inform 
The shadowy dome, the sculptures, and the state 
Of those assembled shapes — with clinging charm 
Sinking upon their hearts and mine — He sate 
Majestic, yet most mild — calm, yet compassionate. 

LVIII. 

Wonder and joy a passing faintness threw 
Over my brow — a hand supported me. 
Whose touch was magic strength : an eye of blue 
Look'd into mine, like moonlight, soothingly ; 
And a voice said — Thou must a listener be 
This day — two mighty Spirits now return, 
Like birds of calm, from the world's raging sea. 
They pour fresh light from Hope's immortal urn; 
A tale of human power — despair not — list and learn ! 

LIX. 

I look'd, and lo ! one stood forth eloquently, 
His eyes were dark and deep, and the clear brow 
Which shadow'd them was like the morning sky. 
The cloudless Heaven of Spring, when in their flow 
Throug-h the bright air, the soft winds as they blow 
Wake the green world — his gestures did obey 
The oracular mind that made his features glow, 
And where his curved lips half open lay, 
Passion's divinest stream had made impetuous way. 

LX. 

Beneath the darkness of his outspread hair 
He stood thus beautiful : but there was One 
Who sate beside him like his shadow there, 
And held his hand — far lovelier — she was known 
To be thus fair, by the few lines alone 
Which through her floating locks and gather'd cloak, 
Glances of soul-dissolving glory, shone : — 
None else beheld her eyes — in him they woke 
Memories which found a tongue, as thus he silence 
broke. 



CANTO n. 



L 

The starlight smile of children, the sweet looks 
Of women, the fair breast from which I fed, 
The murmur of the unreposing brooks, 
And the green light which, shifting overhead, 
Some tangled bower of vines around me shed, 
The shells on the sea-sand, and the wild flowers. 
The lamp-light through the rafters cheerly spread 
And on the twining flax — in life's yoimg hours 
These sights and sounds did nurse my spirit's folded 
powers. 

II. 

In Argolis, beside the echoing sea, 
Such impulses within my mortal frame 
Arose, and they were dear to memory, 
Like tokens of the dead : — but others came 
Soon, in another shape : the wondrous fame 
Of the past world, the vital words and deeds 
Of minds whom neither time nor change can tame. 
Traditions dark and old, whence evil creeds 
Start forth, and whose dim shade a stream of poison 
feeds. 

III. 

I heard, as all have heard, the various story 
Of human life, and wept unwilling tears. 
Feeble historians of its shame and glory, 
False disputants on all its hopes and fears, 
Victims who worshipp'd ruin, — chroniclers 
Of daily scorn, and slaves who lothed their state ; 
Yet flattering power had given its ministers 
A throne of judgment in the grave : — 'twas fate. 
That among such as these my youth should seek its 
mate. 

IV. 

The land in which I lived, by a fell bane 
Was wither'd up. Tyrants dwelt side by side. 
And stabled in our homes, — until the chain 
Stifled the captive's cry, and to abide 
That blasting curse men had no shame — all vied 
In evil, slave and despot ; fear with lust, 
Strange fellowship through mutual hate had tied. 
Like two dark serpents tangled in the dust. 
Which on the paths of men their mingling poison thrust. 



V. 

Earth, our bright home, its mountains and its waters. 
And the ethereal shapes which are suspended 
Over its green expanse, and those fair daughters, 
The clouds, of Sun and Ocean, who have blended 
The colors of the air since first extended 
It cradled the young world, none wander'd forth 
To see or feel : a darkness had descended 
On every heart : the light which shows its worth. 
Must among gentle thoughts and fearless take its birth . 
258 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



11 



VI. 

This vital world, this home of happy spirits, 
Was as a dungeon to my blasted kind, 
All that despair from murder'd hope inherits 
They sought, and in their helpless misery blind, 
A deeper prison and heavier chains did find. 
And stronger tyrants : — a dark gulf before, 
The realm of a stern Ruler, yawn'd ; behind. 
Terror and Time conflicting drove, and bore 
On their tempestuous flood the shrieking wretch from 
shore. 

VII. 
Out of that Ocean's wrecks had Guilt and Woe 
Framed a dark dwelling for their homeless thought, 
And, starting at the ghosts which to and fro 
Glide o'er its dim and gloomy strand, had brought 
The worship thence which they each other taught, 
Well might men lothe their life, well might they 

turn 
Even to the ills again from which they sought 
Such refuge after death ! — well might they learn 
To gaze on this fair world with hopeless unconcern ! 

VIII. 

For they all pined in bondage ; body and soul. 
Tyrant and slave, victim and torturer, bent 
Before one Power, to which supreme control 
Over their will by their own weakness lent, 
Made all its many names omnipotent ; 
All symbols of things evil, all divine ; 
And hymns of blood or mockery, which rent 
The air from all its fanes, did intertwine 
Imposture's impious toils round each discordant shrine. 

IX. 

I heard, as all have heard, life's various story, 
And in no careless heart transcribed the tale ; 
But, from the sneers of men who had grown hoary 
In shame and scorn, from groans of crowds made 

pale 
By famine, from a mother's desolate wail 
O'er her polluted child, from innocent blood 
Pour'd on the earth, and brows anxious and pale 
With the heart's warfare ; did I gather food 
To feed my many thoughts — a tameless multitude ! 



I wander'd through the wrecks of days departed 
Far by the desolated shore, when even 
O'er the still sea and jagged islets darted 
The light of moonrise ; in the northern Heaven, 
Among the clouds near the horizon driven. 
The mountains lay beneath one planet pale ; 
Around me, broken tombs and columns riven 
Look'd vast in twilight, and the sorrowing gale 
Waked in those ruins gray its everlasting wail ! 

XI. 

I knew not who had framed these wonders then. 
Nor had I heard the story of their deeds ; 
But dwellings of a race of mightier men. 
And monuments of less ungentle creeds 
Tell their own tale to him who wisely heeds 
The language which they speak ; and now, to me 
The moonlight making pale the blooming weeds, 
The bright stars shining in the breathless sea. 
Interpreted those scrolls of mortal mystery. 



XII. 
Such man has been, and such may yet become ! 
Ay, wiser, greater, gentler, even than they 
Who on the fragments of yon shatter'd dome 
Have stamp'd. the sign of power — I felt the sway 
Of the vast stream of ages bear away 
My floating thoughts — my heart beat loud and 

fast — 
Even as a storm let loose beneath the ray 
Of the still moon, my spirit onward past 
Beneath Truth's steady beams upon its tumult cast. 

XIII. 

It shall be thus no more ! too long, too long. 
Sons of the glorious dead ! have ye lain bound 
In darkness and in ruin. — Hope is strong. 
Justice and Truth their winged child have found — 
Awake ! arise ! until the mighty sound 
Of your career shall scatter in its gust 
The thrones of the oppressor, and the ground 
Hide the last altar's unregarded dust. 
Whose Idol has so long betray'd your impious trust. 

XIV. 
It must be so — I will arise and waken 
The multitude, and like a sulphurous hill, 
Wliich on a sudden from its snows has shaken 
The swoon of ages, it shall burst and fill 
The world with cleansing fire ; it must, it will — 
It may not be restrain'd ! — and who shall stand 
Amid the rocking earthquake stedfast still, 
But Laon ? on high Freedom's desert land 
A tower whose marble walls the leagued storms 
withstand ! 

XV. 
One summer night, in commune with the hope 
Thus deeply fed, amid those ruins gray 
I watch'd, beneath the dark sky's starry cope ; 
And ever from that hour upon me lay 
The burthen of this hope, and night or day, 
In vision or in dream, clove to my breast : 
Among mankind, or when gone far away 
To the lone shores and mountains, 'twas a guest, 
Which follow'd where I fled, and watch'd when I 
did rest. 

XVI. 

These hopes foimd words through which my spirit 

sought 
To weave a bondage of such S5rmpathy, 
As might create some response to the thought 
Which ruled me now — and as the vapors lie 
Bright in the outspread morning's radiancy. 
So were these thoughts invested with the light 
Of language ; and all bosoms made reply 
On which its lustre stream'd, whene'er it might 
Thro' darkness wide and deep those tranced spirits 
smite. 

XVII. 
Yes, many an eye with dizzy tears was dim. 
And oft I thought to clasp my own heart's brother, 
When I could feel the listener's senses swim. 
And hear his breath its own swift gaspings smother 
Even as my words evoked them — and another, 
And yet another, I did fondly deem. 
Felt that we all were sons of one great mother ; 
And the cold truth such sad reverse did seem, 
As to awake in grief from some delightful dream. 
259 



12 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XVIII. 

Yes, oft beside ihe ruin'd labyrinth 
Which skirts the hoary caves of the green deep, 
Did Laon and his friend on one gray pHnth, 
Round whose worn base the wild waves hiss and 

leap, 
Resting at eve, a lofty converse keep ; 
And that this friend was false, may now be said 
Calmly — that he like other men could weep 
Tears which are lies, and could betray and spread 

Snares for that guileless heart which for his own had 
bled. 

XIX. 
Then, had no great aim recompensed my sorrow, 
I must have sought dark respite from its stress. 
In dreamless rest, in sleep that sees no morrow — 
For to tread life's dismaying wilderness 
Without one smile to cheer, one voice to bless. 
Amid the snares and scoffs of human-kind, 
Is hard — but I betray'd it not, nor less 
With love that scorn'd return, sought to unbind 

The interwoven clouds which make its wisdom blind. 

XX. 

With deathless minds which leave where they 

have past 
A path of light, my soul communion knew ,• 
Till from that glorious intercourse, fit last, 
As from a mine of magic store, I drew 
Words which were weapons ; — round my heart 

there grew 
The adamantine armor of their power, 
And from my fancy wings of golden hue 
Sprang forth — yet not alone from wisdom's tower, 
A minister of truth, these plumes young Laon bore. 

XXI. 

An orphan with my parents lived, whose eyes 
Were load-stars of delight, which drew me home 
When I might wander forth ; nor did I prize 
Aught human thing beneath Heaven's mighty dome 
Beyond this child : so when sad hours were come. 
And baffled hope like ice still clung to me. 
Since kin were cold, and friends had now become 
Heartless and false, I turn'd from all, to be, 
Cythna, the only source of tears and smiles to thee. 

XXII. 
What wert thou then ? A child most infantine, 
Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age 
In all but its sweet looks and mien divine ; 
Even then, methought, with the world's tyrant rage 
A patient warfare thy young heart did wage, 
When those soft eyes of scarcely conscious thought. 
Some tale, or thine own fancies would engage 
To overflow with tears, or converse fraught 
With passion, o'er their depths its fleeting Ught had 
wrought. 

XXIII. 
She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, 
A power, that from its objects scarcely drew 
One impulse of her being — in her lightness 
Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew. 
Which wanders through the waste air's pathless 

blue. 
To nourish some far desert ; she did seem 
Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew. 
Like the bright shade of some immortal dream 
Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of 
life's dark stream. 



XXIV. 

As mine own shadow was this child to me, 
A second self, far dearer and more fair ; 
Which clothed in undissolving radiancy 
All those steep paths which languor and despair 
Of human things, had made so dark and bare. 
But which I trod alone — nor, till bereft 
Of friends, and overcome by lonely care. 
Knew I what solace for that loss was left, 
Though by a bitter wound my trusting heart was 
cleft. 

. XXV. 

VDnce she was dear, now she was all I had 
To love in human life^this playmate sweet, 
This child of twelve-'fears old — so she was made 
My sole associate, and her willing feet 
Wander'd vAih mine where earth and ocean meet, 
Beyond the aerial mountains whose vast cells 
The um-e posing billows ever beat, 
Through forests wide and old, and lawny dells, 

Where boughs of incense droop over the emerald 
wells. 

XXVI. 

And warm and light I felt her clasping hand 
When twined in min^: she follow'd where I went. 
Through the lone paths of our immortal land. 
It had no waste, but some memorial lent 
Which strung me to my toil — some monument 
Vital with mind'i then, Cythna by my side. 
Until the bright and beaming day were spent, 
Would rest, with looks entreating to abide, 
Too earnest and too sweet ever to be denied. 

XXVII. 

And soon I could not have refused her — thus 
For ever, day and night, we two were ne'er 
Parted, but when brief sleep divided us : 
And when the pauses of the lulling air 
Of noon beside the sea, had made a lair 
For her soothed senses, in my arms she slept. 
And I kept watch over her slumbers there. 
While, as the shifting visions o'er her swept, 
Amid her innocent rest by turns she smiled and wept 

XXVIII. 

And, in the murmur of her dreams was heard 
Sometimes the name of Laon : — suddenly 
She would arise, and like the secret bird 
Whom sunset wakens, fill the shore and sky 
With her sweet accents — a wild melody ! 
Hymns which my soul had woven to Freedom 

strong 
The source of passion whence they rose, to be ; 
Triumphant strains, which, like a spirit's tongue. 
To the enchanted waves that child of glory sung. 

XXIX. 

Her white arms lifted through the shadowy stream 
Of her loose hair— oh, excellently great 
Seem'd to me then my purpose, the vast theme 
Of those impassion'd songs, when Cythna sate 
Amid the calm which rapture doth create 
After its tumult, her heart vibrating, 
Her spirit o'er the ocean's floating state 
From her deep eyes far wandering, on the wing 
Of visions that were mine, beyond its utmost spring. 
260 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



13 



XXX. 

For, before Cythna loved it, had my song 
Peopled with thoughts the boundless universe, 
A mighty congregation, which were strong 
Where'er they trod the darkness to disperse 
The cloud of that unutterable curse 
Which clings upon mankind : — all things became 
Slaves to my holy and heroic verse. 
Earth, sea and sky, the planets, life and fame 
And fate, or whate'er else binds the world's wondrous 
frame. 

XXXI. 

And this beloved child thus felt the sway 
Of my conceptions, gathering like a cloud 
The very wind on which it rolls away : 
Hers too were all my thoughts, ere yet endow'd 
\Yith music and with light, their fountains flow'd 
In poesy ; and her still and earnest face. 
Pallid with feelings which intensely glow'd 
Within, was turn'd on mine with speechless grace. 
Watching the hopes which there her heart had learn'd 
to trace. 

XXXII. 
In me, communion with this purest being 
Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise 
In knowledge, which in hers mine own mind seeing 
Left in the human world few mysteries : 
How without fear of evil or disguise 
Was Cythna ! — what a spirit strong and mild, 
Which death, or pain or peril could despise, 
Yet melt in tenderness ! what genius wild. 
Yet mighty, was inclosed within one simple child ! 

XXXIII. 

New lore was this — old age with its gray hair, 
And wrinkled legends of unworthy things. 
And icy sneers, is naught : it cannot dare 
To burst the chains which life for ever flings 
On the entangled soul's aspiring wings. 
So is it cold and cruel, and is made 
The careless slave of that dark power which brings 
Evil, like blight on man, who, still betray'd. 
Laughs o'er the grave in which his living hopes are laid. 

XXXIV. 

Nor are the strong and the severe to keep 
The empire of the world : thus Cythna taught 
Even in the visions of her eloquent sleep. 
Unconscious of the power through which she 

wrought 
The woof of such intelligible thought, 
As from the tranquil strength which cradled lay 
In her smile-peopled rest, my spirit sought 
Why the deceiver and the slave has sway 
O'er heralds so divine of truth's arising day. 

XXXV. 

Within that fairest form, the female mind 
Untainted by the poison-clouds which rest 
On the dark world, a sacred home did find : 
But else, from the wide earth's maternal breast, 
Victorious Evil, which had dispossest 
All native power, had those fair children torn, 
And made them slaves to soothe his vile unrest, 
And minister to lust its joys forlorn, 
Till they had learn'd to breathe the atmosphere of 
scam. 



XXXVI. 

This misery was but coldly felt, till she 

Became my only friend, who had indued 

My purpose with a wider sympathy ; 

Thus, Cythna mourn'd with me the servitude 

In which the half of human-kind were mew'd, 

Victims of lust and hate, the slaves of slaves. 

She mourn'd that grace and power were thrown 

as food 
To the hyena Lust, who, among graves, 
Over his lothed meal, laughing in agony, raves. 

XXXVII. 

And I, still gazing on that glorious child. 

Even as these thoughts flush'd o'er her. — " Cythna 

sweet, 
Well with the world art thou unreconciled : 
Never will peace and human nature meet 
Till free and equal man and woman greet 
Domestic peace ; and ere this power can make 
In human hearts its calm and holy seat : 
This slavery must be broken." — As I spake. 
From Cythna's eyes a light of exultation brake. 

XXXVIII. 

She replied earnestly : — " It shall be mine, 
This task, mine, Laon ! — thou hast much to gain ; 
Nor wilt thou at poor Cythna's pride repine, 
If she should lead a happy female train 
To meet thee over the rejoicing plain, 
When myriads at thy call shall throng around 
The Golden City." — Then the child did strain 
My arm upon her tremulous heart, and wound 
Her own about my neck, till some reply she found. 

XXXIX. 

I smiled and spake not — "Wherefore dost thou smile 
At what I say ? Laon, I am not weak. 
And though my cheek might become pale the while, 
With thee, if thou desirest, will I seek 
Through their array of banded slaves to wreak 
Ruin upon the tyrants. I had thought 
It was more hard to turn my unpractised cheek 
To scorn and shame, and this beloved spot 
And thee, O dearest friend, to leave and murmur not, 

XL. 

" Whence came I what I am ? thou, Laon, knowest 
How a young child should thus undaunted be ; 
Methinks, it is a power which thou bestowest. 
Through which I seek, by most resembling thee. 
So to become most good, and great and free, 
Yet far beyond this Ocean's utmost roar 
In towers and huts are many like to me. 
Who, could they see thine eyes, or feel such lore 
As I have learnt from them, like me would fear no more . 

XLI. 

" Think'st thou that I shall speak unskilfully, 
And none will heed me ? I remember now. 
How once, a slave in tortures doom'd to die. 
Was saved, because in accents sweet and low 
He sung a song his Judge loved long ago, 
As he was led to death. — All shall relent 
Who hear me — tears as mine have flow'd, shall 

flow, 
Hearts beat as mine now beats, with such intent 
As renovates the world ; a will omnipotent ! 
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XLII. 
" Yes, I will tread Pride's golden palaces, 
Through Penury's roofless huts and squalid cells 
Will I descend, where'er in abjectness 
Woman with some vile slave her tyrant dwells. 
There with the music of thine own sweet spells 
Will disenchant the captives, and will pour 
For the despairing, from the crystal wslls 
Of thy deep spirit, reason's mighty lore. 
And power shall then abound, and hope arise once 
more. 

XLIII. 
" Can man be free if woman be a slave ? 
Chain one who lives, and breathes this boundless air 
To the corruption of a closed grave ! 
Can they whose mates are beasts, condenm'd to bear 
Scorn, heavier far than toil or anguish, dare 
To trample their oppressors ? in their home 
Among their babes, thou knowest a curse would 

wear 
The shape of woman — ^lioary crime would come 
Behind, and fraud rebuild Religion's tottering dome. 

XLIV. 

" I am a child : — I would not yet depart. 
When I go forth alone, bearing the lamp 
Aloft which thou hast kindled in my heart, 
Millions of slaves from many a dungeon damp 
Shall leap in joy, as the benumbing cramp 
Of ages leaves their limbs — no ill may harm 
Thy Cythna ever — truth its radiant stamp 
Has fix'd, as an invulnerable charm 
Upon her children's brow, dark falsehood to disarm. 

XLV. 
" Wait yet awhile for the appointed day — 
Thou wilt depart, and I with tears shall stand 
Watching thy dim sail skirt the ocean gray ; 
Amid the dwellers of this lonely land 
I shall remain alone — and thy command 
Shall then dissolve the world's unquiet trance. 
And, multitudinous as the desert sand 
Borne on the storm, its millions shall advance, 
Thronging round thee, the light of their deliverance. 

XLVI. 

"Then, like the forests of some pathless mountain. 
Which from remotest glens two warring winds 
Involve in fire, which not the loosen'd fountain 
Of broadest floods might quench, shall all the kinds 
Of evil, catch from our uniting minds 
The spark which must consume them ; — Cythna 

then 
Will have cast off the impotence that binds 
Her childhood now, and through the paths of men 
Will pass, as the charm'd bird that haunts the serpent's 
den. 

XLVII. 
" We part ! — Laon, I must dare nor tremble 
To meet these looks no more ! — Oh, heavy stroke. 
Sweet brother of my soul ! can I dissemble 
The agony of this thought ? " — As thus she spoke 
The gather'd sobs her quivering accents broke. 
And in my arms she hid her beating breast. 
I remain'd still for tears — sudden she woke 
As one awakes from sleep, and wildly prest 
My bosom, her whole frame impetuously possest. 



XLVIII. 
" We part to meet again — but yon blue waste, 
Yon desert wide and deep holds no recess. 
Within whose happy silence, thus embraced 
We might survive all ills in one caress : 
Nor doth the grave — I fear 'tis passionless — 
Nor yon cold vacant Heaven : — we meet again 
Within the minds of men, whose lips shall bless 
Our memory, and whose hopes its light retain 
When these dissever'd bones are trodden in the 
plain." 

XLIX. 
I could not speak, though she had ceased, for now 
The fountains of her feeling, swift and deep, 
Seem'd to suspend the tumult of their flow ; 
So we arose, and by the starlight steep 
Went homeward — neither did we speak nor weep, 
But pale, were calm with passion — thus subdued 
Like evening shades that o'er the mountains creep, 
We moved towards our home ; where, in this mood, 
Each from the other sought refuge in solitude. 



CANTO in. 



I. 

What thoughts had sway o'er Cythna's lonely 

slumber 
That night, I know not ; but my own did seem 
As if they might ten thousand years outnumber 
Of waking life, the visions of a dream. 
Which hid in one dim gulf the troubled stream 
Of mind ; a boundless chaos wild and vast. 
Whose limits yet were never memory's theme : 
And I lay struggling as its whirlwinds past. 
Sometimes for rapture sick, sometimes for pain aghast. 



II. 

Two hours, whose mighty circle did embrace 
More time than might make gray the infant world, 
Roll'd thus, a weary and tumultuous space : 
When the third came, like mist on breezes curl'd 
From my dim sleep a shadow was unfurl'd : 
Methought, upon the threshold of a cave 
I sate with Cythna ; drooping briony, pearl'd 
With dew from the wild streamlet's shatter'd wave. 
Hung, where we sate to taste the joys which Nature 
gave. 

III. 

We lived a day as we were wont to live, 
But Nature had a robe of glory on. 
And the bright air o'er every shape did weave 
Intenser hues, so that the herbless stone. 
The leafless bough among the leaves alone, 
Had being clearer than its own could be. 
And Cythna's pure and radiant self was shown 
In this strange vision, so divine to me, 
That if I loved before, now love was agony. 
262 



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15 



IV. 

Morn fled, noon came, evening, then night de- 
scended, 
And we prolong'd calm talk beneath the sphere 
Of the calm moon — when suddenly was blended 
With our repose a nameless sense of fear; 
And from the cave behind I seem'd to hear 
Sounds gathering upwards ! — accents incomplete, 
And stifled shrieks, — and now, more near and near, 
A tumult and a rush of thronging feet 
The cavern's secret depths beneath the earth did beat. 

V. 

The scene was changed, and away, away, away! 
Through the air and over the sea we sped, 
And Cylhna in my sheltering bosom lay, 
And the winds bore me— through the darkness spread 
Around, the gaping earth then vomited 
Legions of foul and ghastly shapes, which hung 
Upon my flight ; and ever, as we fled. 
They pluck'd at Cythna — soon to me then clung 
A sense of actual things those monstrous dreams among. 

VI. 

And I lay struggling in the impotence 
Of sleep, while outward life had burst its bound, 
Though, still deluded, strove the tortured sense 
To its dire wanderings to adapt the sound 
Which in the light of morn was pour'd around 
Our dwelling — breathless, pale, and unaware 
I rose, and all the cottage crowded found 
With armed men, whose glittering swords were bare, 
And whose degraded limbs the tyrant's garb did wear. 

VII. 

And ere with rapid lips and gather'd brow 
I could demand the cause — a feeble shriek — 
It was a feeble shriek, faint, far and low. 
Arrested me — my mien grew calm and meek, 
And greisping a small knife, I went to seek 
That voice among the crowd — 'twas Cythna's cry! 
Beneath most calm resolve did agony wreak 
Its whirlwind rage : — so I past quietly 
Till I beheld, where bound, that dearest child did lie. 

vni. 

I started to behold her, for delight 
And exultation, and a joyance free, 
Solemn, serene and lofty, fill'd the light 
Of the calm smile with which she look'd on me ; 
{ So that I fear'd some brainless ecstasy, 
j Wrought from that bitter woe, had wilder'd her — 
" Farewell ! farewell !" she said, as I drew nigh. 
" At first my peace was marr'd by this strange stir 
Now I am calm as truth — its chosen minister. 



IX. 

' " Look not so, Laon — say farewell in hope. 
These bloody men are but the slaves who bear 
Their mistress to her task — it was my scope 
The slavery where they drag me now, to share, 
And among captives willing chains to wear 
Awhile — the rest thou knowest— return, dear friend ! 
Let our first triumph trample the despair 
Which would ensnare us now, for in the end. 
In victory or in death our hopes and fears must 
blend." 



These words had fallen on my unheeding ear. 
Whilst I had watch'd the motions of the crew 
With seeming careless glance ; not many were 
Around her, for their comrades just withdrew 
To guard some other victim — so I drew 
My knife, and with one impulse, suddenly 
All unaware three of their number slew, 
And grasp'd a fourth by the throat, and with loud 
cry 
My countrymen invoked to death or liberty! 

XL 

What foUow'd then, I know not — for a stroke 
On my raised arm and naked head, came down; 
Filling my eyes with blood — when I awoke, 
I fell that they had bound me in my swoon, 
And up a rock which overhangs the town. 
By the steep path were bearing me : below, 
The plain was fill'd with slaughter, — overthrown 
The vineyards and the harvests, and the glow 
Of blazing roofs shone far o'er the white Ocean's flow. 

XII. 

Upon that rock a mighty column stood, 
Whose capitol seemed sculptured in the sky, 
Which to the wanderers o'er the solitude 
Of distant seas, from ages long gone by. 
Had made a landmark ; o'er its height to fly 
Scarcely the cloud, the vulture, or the blast 
Has power — and when the shades of evening lie 
On Earth and Ocean, its carved summits cast 
The sunken daylight far through the aerial waste. 

XIII. 
They bore me to a cavern in the hill 
Beneath that column, and unbound me there: 
And one did strip me stark ; and one did fill 
A vessel from the putrid pool ; one bare 
A lighted torch, and four with friendless care 
Guided my steps the cavern-paths along, 
Then up a steep and dark and narrow stair 
We wound, until the torches' fiery tongue 
Amid the gushing day beamless and pallid hung. 

XIV. 
They raised me to the platform of the pile. 
That column's dizzy height: — the grate of brass 
Through which they thrust me, open stood the while, 
As to its ponderous and suspended mass, 
With chains which eat into the flesh, alas ! 
With brazen links, my naked limbs they bound : 
The grate, as they departed to repass. 
With horrid clangor fell, and the far sound 
Of their retiring steps in the dense gloom was drown'd. 

XV. 
The noon was calm and bright:— around that column 
The overhanging sky and circhng sea 
Spread forth in silentness profound and solemn 
The darkness of brief frenzy cast on me. 
So that I knew not my own misery: 
The islands and the mountains in the day 
Like clouds reposed afar ; and I could see 
The town among the woods below that lay. 

And the dark rocks which bound the bright and glassy 

' bay. 

263 



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XVI. 
It was so calm, that scarce the feathery weed 
Sown by some eagle on the topmost stone 
Svvay'd in the air; — so bright, that noon did breed 
No shadow^ in the sky beside mine own — 
Mine, and the shadow of my chain alone. 
Below the smoke of roofs involved in flame 
Rested like night, all else was clearly shown 
In that broad glare, yet sound to me none came, 
But of the living blood that ran within my frame. 

XVII. 
The peace of madness fled, and ah, too soon ! 
A ship was lying on the sunny main. 
Its sails were flagging in the breathless noon — 
Its shadow lay beyond — that sight again 
Waked, with its presence, in my tranced brain ^ 
The stings of a known sorrow, keen and cold : 
I knew that ship bore Cythna o'er the plain 
Of waters, to her blighting slavery sold. 

And watch'd it with such thoughts as must remain 
untold. 

XVIII. 
I watch'd, until the shades of evening wrapt 
Earth like an exhalation — then the bark 
Moved, for that calm was by the sunset snapt. 
It moved a speck upon the Ocean dark : 
Soon the wan stars came forth, and I could mark 
Its path no more !^I sought to close mine eyes, 
But like the balls, their lids were stiflf" and stark ; 
I would have risen, but ere that I could rise. 

My parched skin was split with piercing agonies. 



XIX. 
I gnaw'd my brazen chain, and sought to sever 
Its adamantine links, that I might die : 
O Liberty ! forgive the base endeavor, 
Forgive me, if reserved for victory, 
The Champion of thy faith e'er sought to fly. — 
That starry night, with its clear silence, sent 
Tameless resolve which laugh'd at misery 
Into my soul — linked remembrance lent 
To that such po#er, to me such a severe content. 

XX. 

To breathe, to be, to hope, or to despair 
And die, I question'd not ; nor, though the Sun 
Its shafts of agony kindling through the air 
Moved over me, nor though in evening dun. 
Or when the stars their visible courses run. 
Or morning, the wide universe was spread 
In dreary calmness round me, did I shun 
Its presence, nor seek refuge with the dead 
From one faint hope whose flower a dropping poison 

shed. 

XXI. 
Two days thus past — I neither raved nor died — 
Thirst raged within me, like a scorpion's nest 
Built in mine entrails : I had spurn'd aside 
The water-vessel, while despair possest 
My thoughts, and now no drop remain'd! the 

uprest 
Of the third sun brought hunger — but the crust 
Which had been left, was to my craving breast 
Fuel, not food. I chew'd the bitter dust, 
And bit my bloodless arm, and lick'd the brazen rust. 



XXII. 
My brain began to fail when the fourth morn 
Burst o'er the golden isles— a fearful sleep. 
Which through the caverns dreary and forlorn 
Of the riven soul, sent its foul dreams to sweep 
With whirlwind swiftness — a fall far and deep, — 
A gulf, a void, a sense of senselessness — 
These things dwelt in me, even as shadows keep 
Their watch in some dim charnel's loneliness, 
A shoreless sea, a sky sunless and planetless! 

XXIII. 

The forms which peopled this terrific trance 
I well remember — like a quire of devils, 
Around me they involved a giddy dance ; 
Legions seem'd gathering from the misty levels 
Of Ocean, to supply those ceaseless revels, 
Foul, ceaseless shadows: — thought could not divide 
The actual world from these entangling evils. 
Which so bemock'd themselves, that I descried 
All shapes like mine own self, hideously multiplied. 

XXIV. 
The sense of day and night, of false and true, 
Was dead within me. Yet two visions burst 
That darkness — one, as since that hour I knew, 
Was not a phantom of the realms accurst, 
Where then my spirit dwelt — but of the first 
I know not yet, was it a dream or no. 
But both, though not distincter, were immersed 
In hues which, when through memory's waste they 
flow. 
Made their divided streams more bright and rapid now 

XXV. 

Methought that gate was lifted, and the seven 
Who brought me thither, four stifle corpses bare, 
And from the frieze to the four winds of Heaven 
Hung them on high by the entangled hair : 
Swarthy were three — the fourth was very fair : 
As they retired, the golden moon upsprung. 
And eagerly, out in the giddy air. 
Leaning that I might eat, I stretch'd and clung 
Over the shapeless depth in which those corpses hung 

XXVI. 

A woman's shape, now lank and cold and blue 
The dwelling of the many-color 'd worm. 
Hung there, the white and hollow cheek I drew 
To my dry lips — what radiance did inform 
Those horny eyes ? whose was that wither'd form ? 
Alas, alas ! it seem'd that Cythna's ghost 
Laugh'd in those looks, and that the flesh was warm 
Within my teeth ! — a whirlwind keen as frost 
Then in its sinking gulfs my sickening spirit tost 

XXVII. 
Then seem'd it that a tameless hurricane 
Arose, and bore me in its dark career 
Beyond the sun, beyond the stars that wane 
On the verge of formless space — it languish'd there, 
And dying, left a silence lone and drear. 
More horrible than famine : — in the deep 
The shape of an old man did then appear, 
Stately and beautiful, that dreadful sleep 
His heavenly smiles dispersed, and I could wake and 
weep. 

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THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



17 



XXVIII. 

And when the Winding tears had fallen, I saw 
That column, and those corpses, and the moon, 
And felt the poisonous tooth of hunger gnaw 
My vitals, I rejoiced, as if the boon 
Of senseless death would be accorded soon ; — 
When from that stony gloom a voice arose, 
Solemn and sweet as when low winds attune 
The midnight pines, the grate did then unclose, 
And on that reverend form the moonlight did repose. 

XXIX. 

He struck my chains, and gently spake and smiled : 
As they were loosen'd by that Hermit old, 
Mine eyes were of their madness half beguiled, 
To answer those kind looks — he did infold 
His giant arms around me, to uphold 
My wretched frame, my scorched limbs he wound 
In linen moist and balmy, and as cold 
As dew to drooping leaves : — the chain, with sound 
Like earthquake, through the chasm of that steep 
stair did bound, 

XXX. 

As lifting me, it fell ! — What next I heard, 
Were billows leaping on the harbor bar. 
And the shrill sea- wind, whose breath idly stirr'd 
; My hair ; — I look'd abroad, and saw a star 
j Shining beside a sail, and distant far 

That mountain and its column, the known mark 
j Of those who in the wide deep wandering are, 

j So that I fear'd some Spirit, fell and dark, 

! In trance had lain me thus within a fiendish bark. 

XXXI. 
j For now indeed, over the salt sea billow 
j I sail'd : yet dared not look upon the shape 

Of him who ruled the helm, although the pillow 
For my light head was hollow'd in his lap. 
And my bare Hmbs his mantle did enwrap. 
Fearing it was a fiend : at last, he bent 
O'er me his aged face, as if to snap 
Those dreadful thoughts the gentle grandsire bent. 
And to my inmost soul his soothing looks he sent. 

XXXII. 

A soft and healing potion to my lips 
At intervals he raised — now look'd on high, 
To mark if yet the starry giant dips , 
His zone in the dim sea — now cheeringly, 
i Though he said little, did he speak to me. 
" It is a friend beside thee — take good cheer. 
Poor victim, thou art how at liberty ! " 
I joy'd as those a human tone to hear. 
Who in cells deep and lone have languish'd many a 
year. 

xxxm. 

A dim and feeble joy, whose glimpes oft 
Were quench'd in a relapse of wildering dreams, 
Yet still methought we sail'd, until aloft 
The stars of night grew pallid, and the beams 
Of morn descended on the ocean-streams. 
And still that aged man, so grand and mild, 
Tended me, even as some sick mother seems 
To hang in hope over a dying child. 
Till in the azure East darkness again was piled. 
21 



XXXIV. 

And then the night- wind streaming from the shore, 
Sent odors dying sweet across the sea. 
And the svdft boat the little waves which bore, 
Were cut by its keen keel, though slantingly ; 
Soon I could hear the leaves sigh, and could see 
The myrtle-blossoms starring the dim grove, 
As past the pebbly beach the boat did flee 
On sidelong wing, into a silent cove. 
Where ebon pines a shade under the starlight wove. 



CANTO IV. 



The old man took the oars, and soon the bark 
Smote on the beach beside a tower of stone ; 
It was a crumbling heap, whose portal dark 
With blooming ivy trails was overgrown ; 
Upon whose floor the spangling sands were strown, 
And rarest sea-shells, which the eternal flood. 
Slave to the mother of the months, had thrown 
Within the walls of that gray tower, which stood 
A changeling of man's art, nursed amid Nature's brood. 

II. 

When the old man his boat had anchored, 
He wound me in his arms with tender care, 
And very few, but kindly words he said. 
And bore me through the tower adown a stair. 
Whose smooth descent some ceaseless step to wear 
For many a year had fall'n — We came at last 
To a small chamber, which with mosses rare 
Was tapestried, where me his soft hands placed 
Upon a couch of grass and oak-leaves interlaced. 

III. 

The moon was darting through the lattices 
Its yellow light, warm as the beams of day — 
So warm, that to admit the dewy breeze, 
The old man open'd them ; the moonlight lay 
Upon a lake whose waters wore their play 
Even to the threshold of that lonely home : 
Within was seen in the dim wavering ray, 
The antique sculptured roof, and many a tome. 
Whose lore had made that sage all that he had become . 



IV. 

The rock-built barrier of the sea was past, — 
And I was on the margin of a lake, 
A lonely lake, amid the forests vast 
And snowy mountains : — did my spirit wake 
From sleep, as many-color'd as the snake 
That girds eternity ? in hfe and truth. 
Might not my heart its cravings ever slake ? 
Was Cythna then a dream, and all my youth, 
And all its hopes and fears, and all its joy and ruth ? 
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V. 

Thus madness came again, — a milder madness, 
Which darken'd naught but time's unquiet flow 
With supernatural shades of clinging sadness ; 
That gentle Hermit, in my helpless woe, 
By my sick couch was busy to and fro, 
Like a strong spirit ministrant of good : 
When I was heal'd, he led me forth to show 
The wonders of his sylvan solitude. 
And we together sate by that isle-fretted flood. 

VI. 

He knew his soothing words to weave with skill 
From all my madness told ; like mine own heart, 
Of Cythna would he question me, until 
That thrilling name had ceased to make me start. 
From his familiar lips — it was not art. 
Of wisdom and of justice when he spoke — 
When 'mid soft looks of pity, there would dart 
A glance as keen as is the lightning's stroke 
When it doth rive the knots of some ancestral oak. 

VII. 

Thus slowly from my brain the darkness roll'd, 
My thoughts their due array did reassume 
Through the enchantments of that Hermit old ; 
Then I bethought me of the glorious doom 
Of those who sternly struggle to relume 
The lamp of Hope o'er man's bewilder'd lot, 
And, sitting by the waters, in the gloom 
Of eve, to that friend's heart I told my thought — 
That heart which had grown old, but had corrupted 
not. 

VIII. 
That hoary man had spent his livelong age 
In converse with the dead, who leave the stamp 
Of over-burning thoughts on many a page. 
When they are gone into the senseless damp 
Of graves ; — his spirit thus became a lamp 
Of splendor, like to those on which it fed 
Through peopled haunts, the City and the Camp, 
Deep thirst for knowledge had his footsteps led, 
And all the ways of men among mankind he read. 



IX. 

But custom maketh blind and obdurate 
The loftiest hearts : — ^he had beheld the woe 
In which mankind was bound, but deem'd that fate 
Which made them abject, would preserve them so ; 
And in such faith, some stedfast joy to know, 
He sought this cell : but when fame went abroad. 
That one in Argolis did undergo 
Torture for liberty, and that the crowd 
High truths from gifted hps had heard and under- 
stood ; 

X. 

And that the multitude was gathering wide ; 
His spirit leap'd within his aged frame. 
In lonely peace he could no more abide. 
But to the land on which the victor's flame 
Had fed, my native land, the Hermit came : 
Each heart was there a shield, and every tongue 
Was as a sword of truth — young Laon's name 
Rallied their secret hopes, though tyrants sung 
Hymns of triumphant joy our scatter'd tribes among. 



XI. 
He came to the lone column on the rock, 
And with his sweet and mighty eloquence 
The hearts of those who watch'd it did unlock, 
And made them melt in tears of penitence. 
They gave him entrance free to bear me thence. 
Since this, the old man said, seven years are spent. 
While slowly truth on thy benighted sense 
Has crept ; the hope which wilder'd it has lent. 
Meanwhile, to me the power of a subUme intent. 

XII. 

" Yes, from the records of my youthful state. 
And from the lore of bards and sages old. 
From whatsoe'er my waken'd thoughts create 
Out of the hopes of thine aspirings bold. 
Have I collected language to unfold 
Truth to my countrymen ; from shore to shore 
Doctrines of human power my words have told. 
They have been heard, and men aspire to more 
Than they have ever gain'd or ever lost of yore. 

XIII. 

" In secret chambers parents read, and weep. 
My writings to their babes, no longer blind ; 
And young men gather when their tyrants sleep. 
And vows of faith each to the other bind; 
And marriageable maidens, who have pined 
With love, till life seem'd melting through their look, 
A warmer zeal, a nobler hope now find ; 
And every bosom thus is rapt and shook, 
Like autumn's myriad leaves in one swoln mountain 
brook. 

XIV. 
" The tyrants of the Golden City tremble 
At voices which are heard about the streets. 
The ministers of fraud can scarce dissemble 
The lies of their own heart ; but when one meets 
Another at the shrine, he inly weets, 
Though he says nothing, that the truth is known; 
Murderers are pale upon the judgment-seats. 
And gold grows vile even to the wealthy crone. 
And laughter fills the Fane, and curses shake the 
Throne. 

XV. 
" Kind thoughts, and mighty hopes, and gentle deeds 
Abound, for fearless love, and the pure law 
Of mild equality and peace, succeeds 
To faiths which long have held the world in awe, 
Bloody and false, and cold : — as whirlpools draw 
All wrecks of Ocean to their chasm, the sway 
Of thy strong genius, Laon, which foresaw 
This hope, compels all spirits to obey. 
Which round thy secret strength now throng in wide 
array. 

XVI. 
" For I have been thy passive instrument" — 
(As thus the old man spake, his countenance 
Gleam'd on me like a spirit's) — " thou hast lent 
To me, to all, the power to advance 
Towards this unforeseen deliverance 
From our ancestral chains — aye, thou didst rear 
That lamp of hope on high, which time nor chance, 
Nor change may not extinguish, and my share 
Of good, was o'er the world its gather'd beams to bear. 
266 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



19 



XVIL 
" But I, alas ! am both unknown and old, 
And though the woof of wisdom I know well 
To dye in hues of language, I am cold 
In seeming, and the hopes which inly dwell, 
My manners note that I did long repel ; 
But Laon's name to the tumultuous throng 
Were like the star whose beams the waves compel 
And tempests, and his soul-subduing tongue 
Were as a lance to quell the mailed crest of wrong. 

XVIII. 
" Perchance blood need not flow, if thou at length 
Wouldst rise, perchance the very slaves would spare 
Their brethren and themselves ; great is the strength 
Of words — for lately did a maiden fair. 
Who from her childhood has been taught to bear 
The tyrant's heaviest yoke, arise, and make 
Her sex the law of truth and freedom hear. 
And with these quiet words — ' for thine own sake 
I prithee spare me ;' — did with ruth so take 

XIX. 

" All hearts, that even the torturer who had bound 
Her meek calm frame, ere it was yet impaled, 
Loosen'd her weeping then ; nor could be found 
One human hand to harm her — unassail'd 
Therefore she walks through the great City, veil'd 
In virtue's adamantine eloquence, 
'Gainst scorn, and death and pain thus trebly mail'd. 
And blending in the smiles of that defence. 
The Serpent and the Dove, Wisdom and Innocence. 

XX. 

" The wild-eyed women throng around her path : 
From their luxurious dungeons, from the dust 
Of meaner thralls, from the oppressor's wrath, 
Or the caresses of his sated lust. 
They congregate : — in her they put their trust ; 
The tyrants send their armed slaves to quell 
Her power ; — they, even like a thunder-gust 
Caught by some forest, bend beneath the spell 
Of that young maiden's speech, and to their chiefs 
rebel. 

XXI. 

" Thus she doth equal laws and justice teach 
To woman, outraged and polluted long ; 
Gathering the sweetest fruit in human reach 
For those fair hands now free, while armed wrong 
Trembles before her look, though it be strong; 
Thousands thus dwell beside her, virgins bright. 
And matrons with their babes, a stately throng ! 
Lovers renew the vows which they did plight 
In early faith, and hearts long parted now imite, 

XXII. 

" And homeless orphans find a home near her, 
And those poor victims of the proud, no less. 
Fair wrecks, on whom the smiling world with stir, 
Thrusts the redemption of its wickedness . — 
In squalid huts, and in its palaces 
Sits Lust alone, while o'er the land is borne 
Her voice, whose awful sweetness doth repress 
All evil, and her foes relenting turn. 
And cast the vote of love in hope's abandon'd urn. 



XXIII. 

" So in the populous City, a young maiden 
Has baffled Havoc of the prey which he 
Marks as his own, whene'er wdth chains o'erladen 
Men make them arms to hurl down tyranny, 
False arbiter between the bound and free ; 
And o'er the land, in hamlets and in towns 
The multitudes collect tumultuously, 
And throng in arms; but tyranny disowns 
Their claim, and gathers strength around its trem- 
bling thrones. 

XXIV. 

" Blood soon, although unwillingly, to shed 
The free cannot forbear — the Queen of Slaves, 
The hoodwink'd Angel of the blind and dead. 
Custom, vidth iron mace points to the graves 
Wlien her own standard desolately waves 
Over the dust of Prophets and of Kings. 
Many yet stand in her array — ' she paves 
Her path with human hearts,' and o'er it flings 
The wildering gloom of her immeasurable wings. 

XXV. 

" There is a plain beneath the City's wall. 
Bounded by misty mountains, wide and vast, 
Millions there lift at Freedom's thrilling call 
Ten thousand standards wide, they load the blast 
Which bears one sound of many voices past. 
And startles on his throne their sceptred foe : 
He sits amid his idle pomp aghast, 
And that his power hath past away, doth know — 
Why pause the victor swords to seal his overthrow ? 

XXVI. 

"The tyrant's guards resistance yet maintain : 
Fearless, and fierce, and hard as beasts of blood; 
They stand a speck amid the peopled plain ; 
Carnage and ruin have been made their food 
From infancy — ill has become their good, 
And for its hateful sake their will has wove 
The chains which eat their hearts — the multitude 
Surrounding them, with words of human love. 
Seek from their own decay their stubborn minds to 
move. 

XXVII. 
" Over the land is felt a sudden pause, 
As night and day those ruthless bands around 
The watch of love is kept : — a trance which awes 
The thoughts of men vdth hope — as when the sound 
Of whirlwind, whose fierce blasts the waves and 

clouds confound. 
Dies suddenly, the mariner in fear 
Feels silence sink upon his heart — thus bound. 
The conquerors pause, and oh ! may freemen ne'er 
Clasp the relentless knees of Dread, the murderer ! 

XXVIII. 

" If blood be shed, 'tis but a change and choice 
Of bonds, — from slavery to cowardice 
A wretched fall ! — uplift thy charmed voice. 
Pour on those evil men the love that lies 
Hovering within those spirit-soothing eyes — 
Arise, my friend, farewell ! " — As thus he spake, 
From the green earth lightly I did arise. 
As one out of dim dreams that doth awake, 
And look'd upon the depth of that reposing lake. 
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XXIX. 

I saw my countenance reflected there ; — 
And then my youth fell on me like a wind 
Descending on still waters — my thin hair 
Was prematurely gray, my face was hned 
With channels, such as suffering leaves behind, 
Not age ; my brow was pale, but in my cheek 
And lips a flush of gnawing fire did find 
Their food and dwelling; though mine eyes might 



A subtle mind and strong within a frame thus weak. 

XXX. 

And though their lustre now was spent and faded, 
Yet in my hollow looks and wither'd mien 
The likeness of a shape for which was braided 
The brightest woof of genius, still was seen — 
One who, methought, had gone from the world's 

scene, 
And left it vacant — 't was her lover's face — 
It might resemble her — it once had been 
The mirror of her thoughts, and still the grace 
Which her mind's shadow cast, left there a lingering 

trace. 

XXXI. 

What then was I ? She slumber'd with the dead. 
Glory and joy and peace, had come and gone. 
Doth the cloud perish, when the beams are fled 
Which steep'd its skirts in gold ? or dark and lone. 
Doth it not through the paths of night unknown. 
On outspread wings of its ow^n wind upborne, 
Pour rain upon the earth ? the stars are shown, 
When the cold moon sharpens her silver horn 
Under the sea, and make the wide night not forlorn. 

XXXII. 

Strengthen'd in heart, yet sad, that aged man 
I left, with interchange of looks and tears, 
And lingering speech, and to the Camp began 
My way. O'er many a mountain chain which rears 
Its hundred crests aloft, ray spirit bears 
My frame ; o'er many a dale and many a moor, 
And gaily now me seems serene earth wears 
The bloomy spring's star-bright investiture, 
A vision which aught sad from sadness might allure. 

XXXIII. 
My powers revived within me, and I went 
As one whom wdnds waft o'er the bending grass. 
Through many a vale of that broad continent. 
At night when I reposed, fair dreams did pass 
Before my pillow ; — my own Cythna was 
Not like a child of death, among them ever ; 
When I arose from rest, a woful mass 
That gentlest sleep seem'd from my life to sever, 
As if the light of youth were not withdrawn for ever. 

XXXIV. 

Aye as I went, that maiden who had rear'd 
The torch of Truth afar, of whose high deeds 
The Hermit in his pilgrimage had heard. 
Haunted my thoughts. — Ah, Hope its sickness feeds 
With whatsoe'er it finds, or flowers or weeds ! 
Could she be Cythna? — Was that corpse a shade 
Such as self-torturing thought from madness breeds? 
Why was this hope not torture ? yet it made 
A light around ray steps which would not ever fade. 



CANTO V. 



Over the utmost hill at length I sped, 
A snowy steep : — the moon was hanging low 
Over the Asian mountains, and outspread 
The plain, the City, and the Camp below, 
Sldrted the midnight Ocean's glimmering flow 
The City's moon-lit spires and myriad lamps, 
Like stars in a sublunar sky did glow, 
And fires blazed far amid the scatter 'd camps. 
Like springs of flame, which burst where'er swift 
Earthquake stamps, 

II. 

All slept but those in watchful arms who stood, 
And those who sate tending the beacon's light. 
And the few sounds from that vast multitude 
Made silence more profound — Oh, what a might 
Of human thought was cradled in that night ! 
How many hearts impenetrably veil'd 
Beat underneath its shade, what secret fight 
Evil and good, in woven passions mail'd, 
Waged through that silent throng ; a war that never 
fail'd ! 

III. 

And now the Power of Good held victory 
So, through the labyrinth of many a tent. 
Among the silent millions who did lie 
In innocent sleep, exultingly I went ; 
The moon had left Heaven desert now, but lent 
From eastern morn the first faint lustre show'd 
An armed youth — over his spear he bent 
His downward face — " A friend '." I cried aloud, 
And quickly common hopes made freemen understood. 

IV. 

I sate beside him while the morning beam 
Crept slowly over Heaven, and talk'd with him 
Of those immortal hopes, a glorious theme! 
Which led us forth, until the stars grew dim : 
And all the while, methought, his voice did swim. 
As if it drowned in remembrance were 
Of thoughts which make the moist eyes overbrim : 
At last, when daylight 'gan to fill the air, 
He look'd on me, and cried in wonder, " Thou art here ! " 



Then, suddenly, I knew it was the youth 
In whom its earhest hopes my spirit found ; 
But envious tongues had stain'd his spotless truth, 
And thoughtless pride his love in silence bound, 
And shame and sorrow mine in toils had woimd, 
Whilst he was innocent, and I deluded ; 
The truth now came upon me, on the ground 
Tears of repenting joy, which fast intruded. 
Fell fast, and o'er its peace our mingling spirits brooded. 
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THE REVOLT Oi ISLAM. 



21 



VI. 

Thus, while with rapid lips and earnest eyes 
We talk'd, a sound of sweeping conflict spread, 
As from the earth did suddenly arise ; 
From every tent, roused by that clamor dread, 
Our bands outsprung and seized their arms — we 

sped 
Towards the sound : our tribes were gathering far. 
Those sanguine slaves amid ten thousand dead 
Stabb'd in their sleep, trampled in treacherous war. 

The gentle hearts whose power their lives had sought 
to spare. 

VII. 
Like rabid snakes, that sting some gentle child 
Who brings them food, when winter false and fair 
Allures them forth with its cold smiles, so wild 
They rage among the camp : — they overbear 
The patriot hosts — confusion, then despair 
Descends like night — when " Laon ! " one did cry : 
Like a bright ghost from Heaven that shout did 

scare 
The slaves, and widening through the vaulted sky, 

Seem'd sent from Earth to Heaven in sign of victory. 

VIII. 

In sudden panic those false murderers fled, 
Like insect tribes before the northern gale : 
But swifter still, our hosts encompassed 
Their shatter'd ranks, and in a craggy vale. 
Where even their fierce despair might naught avail. 
Hemm'd them around! — and then revenge and 

fear 
Made the high virtue of the patriots fail : 
One pointed at his foe the mortal spear — 
I rush'd before its point, and cried, "Forbear, forbear!" 

IX. 

j The spear transfix'd my arm that was uplifted 
I In swift expostulation, and the blood 
, Gush'd round its point : I smiled, and — " Oh ! thou 
gifted 
With eloquence which shall not be withstood, 
Flow thus !" — I cried in joy, " thou vital flood. 
Until my heart be diy, ere thus the cause 
For which thou wert aught worthy be subdued — 
Ah, ye are pale, — ^ye weep, — your passions pause, — 
'Tis well ! ye feel the truth of love's benignant laws. 

X. 

" Soldiers, our brethren and our friends are slain : 
Ye murder'd them, I think, as they did sleep ! 
Alas, what have ye done ? the slightest pain 
Which ye might suffer, there were eyes to weep ; 
I But ye have quench'd them — there were smiles to 
steep 
Your hearts in balm, but they are lost in woe ; 
And those whom love did set his watch to keep 
Aroimd your tents truth's freedom to bestow, 
¥e stabb'd as they did sleep — but they forgive ye 



XI. 

" O wherefore should ill ever flow from ill. 
And pain still keener pain for ever breed ? 
We all are brethren— even the slaves who kill 
For hire, are men ! and to avenge misdeed 
On the misdoer, doth but Misery feed 
With her own broken heart ! O Earth, O Heaven 
And thou, dread Nature, which to every deed 
And all that lives, or is, to be hath given, 
Even as to thee have these done ill, and are forgiven. 



XII. 
" Join then your hands and hearts, and let the past 
Be as a grave which gives not up its dead 
To evil thoughts." — A film then overcast 
My sense with dimness, for the wound, which 

bled 
Freshly, swift shadows o'er mine eyes had shed. 
When I awoke, I lay 'mid friends and foes, 
And earnest countenances on me shed 
The hght of questioning looks, whilst one did close 
My wound with balmiest herbs, and soothed me to 



XIII. 

And one whose spear had pierced me, lean'd be- 
side 
With quivering lips and humid eyes ; — and all 
Seem'd like some brothers on a journey wide 
Gone forth, whom now strange meeting did befall 
In a strange land, round one whom they might 

call 
Their friend, their chief, their father, for assay 
Of peril, which had saved them from the thrall 
Of death, now suffering. Thus the vast array 
Of those fraternal bands were reconciled that day. 

XIV. 
Lifting the thunder of their acclamation. 
Towards the City then the multitude, 
And I among them, went in joy — a nation 
Made free by love, — a mighty brotherhood 
Link'd by a jealous interchange of good ; 
A glorious pageant, more magnificent 
Than kingly slaves array'd in gold and blood ; 
When they return from carnage, and are sent 
In triumph bright beneath the populous battlement. 

XV. 
Afar, the City walls were throng'd on high, 
And myriads on each giddy turret climg, 
And to each spire far lessening in the sky, 
Bright pennons on the idle winds were hung ; 
As we approach'd a shout of joyance sprung 
At once from all the crowd, as if the vast 
And peopled Earth its boundless sides among 
The sudden clamor of delight had cast. 
When from before its face some general wreck had 

past. 

XVI. 
Our armies through the City's hundred gates 
Were pour'd, like brooks which to the rocky lair 
Of some deep lake, whose silence them awaits, 
Throng from the mountains when the storms are 

there ; 
And as we past through the calm sunny air, 
A thousand flower-inwoven crowns were shed. 
The token flowers of truth and freedom fair, 
And fairest hands bound them on many a head. 
Those angels of love's heaven, that over all was 

spread. 

XVII. 
I trod as one tranced in some rapturous vision : 
Those bloody bands so lately reconciled. 
Were, ever as they went, by the contrition 
Of anger tum'd to love from ill beguiled, 
And every one on them more gently smiled, 
Because they had done evil : — the sweet awe 
Of such mild looks made their own hearts grow 

mild. 
And did with soft attraction ever draW 
Their spirits to the love of freedom's equal law. 
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XVIII. 

And they, and all, in one loud symphony 
My name which Liberty, commingling, hfted 
" The friend and the preserver of the free ! 
The parent of this joy !" and fair eyes gifted 
With feelings, caught from one who had uplifted 
The light of a great spirit, round me shone ; 
And all the shapes of this grand scenery shifted 
Like restless clouds before the stedfast sun, — 
Where was that Maid ? I ask'd, but it was known 
of none. 

XIX. 

Laone was the name her love had chosen, 
For she was nameless, and her birth none knew : 
Where was Laone now ? — the words were frozen 
Within my lips with fear ; but to subdue 
Such dreadful hope, to my great task was due, 
And when at length one brought reply, that she 
To-morrow would appear, I then withdrew 
To judge what need for that great throng might 
be, 
For now the stars came thick over the twilight sea, 

XX. 

Yet need was none for rest or food to care, 
Even though that multitude was passing great. 
Since each one for the other did prepare 
All kindly succor — Therefore to the gate 
Of the Imperial House, now desolate, 
I past, and there was found aghast, alone, 
The fallen Tyrant ! — silently he sate 
Upon the footstool of his golden throne, 
Which, starr'd with sunny gems, in its own lustre shone. 

XXL 

Alone, but for one child, who led before him 
A graceful dance : the only living thing 
Of all the crowd, which thither to adore him 
Flock'd yesterday, who solace sought to bring 
In his abandonment ! — she knew the King 
Had praised her dance of yore, and now she wove 
Its circles, aye weeping and murmuring 
'Mid her sad task of unregarded love, 
That to no smiles it might his speechless sadness move. 

XXIL 
She fled to him, and wildly clasp'd his feet 
When human steps were heard : — he moved nor 

spoke, 
Nor changed his hue, nor raised his looks to meet 
The gaze of strangers — our loud entrance woke 
The echoes of the hall, which circling broke 
The calm of its recesses, — like a tomb 
Its sculptured walls vacantly to the stroke 
Of footfalls answered, and the twilight's gloom. 
Lay like a charnel's mist within the radiant dome. 

XXIII. 
The little child stood up when we came nigh ; 
Her lips and cheeks seem'd very pale and wan. 
But on her forehead, and within her eye 
Lay beauty, which makes hearts that feed thereon 
Sick with excess of sweetness ; on the throne 
She lean'd ; — the King with gather'd brow, and lips 
Wreathed by long scorn, did inly sneer and frown 
With hue like that when some great painter dips 
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse. 



XXIV. 
She stood beside him like a rainbow braided 
Within some storm, when scarce its shadow vast 
From the blue paths of the swift sun have faded ; 
A sweet and solemn smile, like Cythna's, cast 
One moment's light, which made my heart beat 

fast. 
O'er that child's parted lips — a gleam of bliss, 
A shade of vanish'd days, — as the tears past 
Which wrapt it, even as with a father's kiss 
I press'd those softest eyes in trembling tenderness. 

XXV. 

The sceptred wretch then from that solitude 
I drew, and of his change compassionate. 
With words of sadness soothed his rugged mood. 
But he, while pride and fear held deep debate, 
With sullen guile of ill-dissembled hate 
Glared on me as a toothless snake might glare : > 
Pity, not scorn I felt, though desolate 
The desolator now, and unaware 
The curses which he mock'd had caught him by the 
hair. 

XXVI. 
I led him forth from that which now might seem 
A gorgeous grave : through portals sculptured deep 
With imagery beautiful as dream 
We went, and left the shades which tend on sleep 
Over its unregarded gold to keep 
Their silent watch. — The child trod faintingly. 
And as she went, the tears which she did weep 
Glanced in the starlight ; wilder'd seemed she, 
And when I spake, for sobs she could not answer me. 

XXVII. 

At last the tyrant cried, " She hungers, slave : 
Stab her, or give her bread ! " — It was a tone 
Such as sick fancies in a new-made grave 
Might hear. I trembled, for the truth was Itnown, 
He with this child had thus been left alone. 
And neither had gone forth for food, — but he 
In mingled pride and awe cower'd near his throne, 
And she, a nursling of captivity, 
Knew naught beyond those walls, nor what such 
change might be. 

XXVIII. 
And she was troubled at a charm withdrawn 
Thus suddenly ; that sceptres ruled no more — 
That even from gold the dreadful strength was 

gone, 
Which once made all things subject to its power — 
Such wonder seized him, as if hour by hour 
The past had come again ; and the swift fall 
Of one so great and terrible of yore. 
To desolateness, in the hearts of all 
Like wonder stirr'd, who saw such awful change 
befall. 

XXIX. 
A mighty crowd, such as the wide land pours 
Once in a thousand years, now gather'd round 
The fallen tyrant ; — Hke the rush of showers 
Of hail in spring, pattering along the ground. 
Their many footsteps fell, else came no sound 
From the wide multitude : that lonely man 
Then knew the burthen of his change, and found. 
Concealing in the dust his visage wan. 
Refuge from the keen looks which thro' his bosom raa 
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THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



23 



XXX. 

And he was faint withal : I sate beside him 
' Upon the eatth, and took that child so fair 

From his weak arms, that ill might none betide him 
Or her ; — when food was brought to them, her share 
j To his averted lips the child did bear, 

But when she saw he had enough, she ate 
And wept the while ; — the lonely man's despair 
Hunger then overcame, and of his state 
Forgetful, on the dust as in a trance he sate. 



XXXI. 

Slowly the silence of the multitudes 
Past, as when far is heard in some lone dell 
The gathering of a wind among the woods — 
And he is fallen ! they cry, he who did dwell 
Like famine or the plague, or aught more fell 
Among our homes, is fallen ! the murderer 
Who slaked his thirsting soul as from a well 
Of blood and tears with ruin ! he is here ! 
Slink in a gulf of scorn from which none may him rear ! 

XXXII. 

Then was heard — He who j udged lethim be brought 
To judgment ! blood for blood cries from the soil 
On which his crimes have deep pollution wrought! 
Shall Othman only unavenged despoil ? 
Shall they who by the stress of grinding toil 
Wrest from the unvdlling earth his luxuries. 
Perish for crime, while his foul blood may boil, 
Or creep within his veins at will ? — Arise ! 
And to high justice make her chosen sacrifice. 

XXXIII. 

" What do ye seek ? what fear ye ? " then I cried; 
Suddenly starting forth, " that ye should shed 
The blood of Othman — if your hearts are tried 
In the true love of freedom, cease to dread 
This one poor lonely man — beneath Heaven spread 
In purest light above us all, through earth, 
Maternal earth, who doth her sweet smiles shed 
For all, let him go free ; until the worth 
Of human nature win from these a second birth. 

XXXIV. 

" What call ye justice ? is there one who ne'er 
In secret thought has wish'd another's ill ? — 
Are ye all pure ? let those stand forth who hear, 
j And tremble not. Shall they insult and kill. 
If such they be ? their mild eyes can they fill 
With the false anger of the hypocrite ? 
Alas, such were not pure — the chasten'd will 
Of virtue sees that justice is the light 
Of love, and not revenge, and terror and despite." 

XXXV. 

The murmur of the people slowly dying, 
Paused as I spake, then those who near me were, 
Cast gentle looks where the lone man was Ipng 
Shrouding his head, which now that infant fair 
Clasp'd on her lap in silence ; — through the air 
Sobs were then heard, and many kiss'd my feet 
In pity's madness, and to the despair 
Of him whom late they cursed, a solace sweet 
His very victims brought— soft looks and speeches meet. 



XXXVI. 

Then to a home for his repose assign'd. 
Accompanied by the still throng he went 
In silence, where to soothe his rankling mind, 
Some likeness of his ancient state was lent ; 
And if his heart could have been innocent 
As those who pardon'd him, he might have ended 
His days in peace ; but his strait lips were bent, 
Men said, into a smile which guile portended, 
A sight with which that child-hke hope with fear 
was blended. 

XXXVII. 
'Twas midnight now, the eve of that great day 
Whereon the many nations at whose call 
The chains of earth like mist melted away, 
Decreed to hold a sacred Festival, 
A rite to attest the equality of all 
Who live. So to their homes, to dream or wake, 
All went. The sleepless silence did recall 
Laone to my thoughts, with hopes that make 
The flood recede from which their thirst they seek to 
slake. 

XXXVIII. 

The dawn flow'd forth, and from its purple fountains 
I drank those hopes which make the spirit quail ; 
As to the plain between the misty mountains 
And the great City, with a countenance pale 
I went : — it was a sight which might avail 
To make men weep exulting tears, for whom 
Now first from human power the reverend veil 
Was torn, to see Earth from her general womb 
Pour forth her swarming sons to a fraternal doom : 

XXXIX. 

To see, far glancing in the misty morning, 
The signs of that innumerable host. 
To hear one sound of many made, the Warning 
Of Earth to Heaven from its free children tost, 
While the eternal hills, and the sea lost 
In wavering light, and starring the blue sky 
The city's myriad spires of gold, almost 
With human joy made mute society, 
Its witnesses with men who must hereafter be. 

XL. 

To see like some vast island from the Ocean, 
The Altar of the Federation rear 
Its pile i' the midst ; a work, which the devotion 
Of millions in one night created there, 
Sudden, as when the moonrise makes appear 
Strange clouds in the east ; a marble pyramid 
Distinct with steps : that mighty shape did wear 
The light of genius ; its still shadow hid 
Far ships : to know its height the morning mists forbid ! 

XLI. 

To hear the restless multitudes for ever 
Around the base of that great Altar flow. 
As on some mountain islet burst and shiver 
Atlantic waves ; and solemnly and slow 
As the wind bore that tumult to and fro, 
To feel the dreamlike music, which did swim 
Like beams through floating clouds on waves below 
Falling in pauses, from that Altar dim. 
As silver-sounding tongues breathed an aerial hymn. 
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XLII. 

To hear, to see, to live, was on that mom 
Lethean joy ! so that all those assembled 
Cast off their memories of the past outworn ; 
Two only bosoms with their own life trembled. 
And mine was one, — and we had both dissembled; 
So with a beating heart I went, and one. 
Who having much, covets yet more, resembled ; 
A lost and dear possession, which not won, 
He walks in lonely gloom beneath the noonday sun. 

XLIII. 

To the great Pyramid I came : its stair 
With female quires was throng'd : the loveliest 
Among the free, grouped with its sculptures rare ; 
As I approach'd, the morning's golden mist, 
Which now the wonder-stricken breezes kist 
With their cold lips, fled, and the summit shone 
Like Athos seen from Samothracia, drest 
In earliest light by vintagers, and one 
Sate there, a female Shape upon an ivory throne. 

XLIV. 
A Form most like the imagined habitant 
Of silver exhalations sprung from dawn, 
By winds which feed on sunrise woven, to enchant 
The faiths of men : all mortal eyes were drawn. 
As famish'd mariners through strange seas gone 
Gaze on a burning watch-tower, by the light 
Of those divinest lineaments — alone 
With thoughts which none could share, from that 
fair sight 
I tum'd in sickness, for a veil shrouded her coun- 
tenance bright. 

XLV. 
And, neither did I hear the acclamations, 
WThich from brief silence bursting, fill'd the air 
With her strange name and mine, from all the nations 
Which we, they said, in strength had gather'd there 
From the sleep of bondage ; nor the vision fair 
Of that bright pageantry beheld, — but blind 
And silent, as a breathing corpse did fare, 
Leaning upon my friend, till like a vdnd 
To fe ver'd cheeks, a voice flow'd o'er my troubled mind. 

XLVI. 
Like music of some minstrel heavenly gifted. 
To one whom fiends enthral, this voice to me ; 
Scarce did I wish her veil to be uplifted, 
I was so calm and joyous. — I could see 
The platform where we stood, the statues three 
Which kept their marble watch on that high shrine. 
The multitudes, the mountains, and the sea ; 
As when eclipse hath past, things sudden shine 
To men's astonish'd eyes most clear and crystalline. 

XLVIL 

• At first Laone spoke most tremulously : 
But soon her voice the calmness which it shed 
Gather'd, and — " Thou art whom I sought to see. 
And thou art our first votary here," she said : 
" I had a dear friend once, but he is dead ! — 
And of all those on the wide earth who breathe, 
Thou dost resemble him alone — I spread 
This veil between us two, that thou beneath 

Shouldst image one who may have been long lost in 
death. 



XLVIII. 
" For this wilt thou not henceforth pardon me ? 
Yes, but those joys which silence will requite 
Forbid reply ; — why men have chosen me, 
To be the Priestess of this holiest rite 
I scarcely know, but that the floods of light 
Wliich flow over the world, have borne me hither 
To meet thee, long most dear ; and now unite 
Thine hand with mine, and may all comfort wither 
From both the hearts whose pulse in joy now beat 
together. 

XLIX 

If our own will as others' law we bind, 
If the foul worship trampled here we fear ; 
If as ourselves we cease to love our kind !" — 
She paused and pointed upwards — sculptured there 
Three shapes around her ivory throne appear ; 
One was a Giant, like a child asleep 
On a loose rock, whose grasp crush'd, as it were 
In dream, sceptres and crowns ; and one did keep 
Its watchful eyes in doubt whether to smile or weep; 



A Woman sitting on the sculptured disk 
Of the broad earth, and feeding from one breast 
A human babe and a young basilisk ; 
Her looks were sweet as Heaven's when loveliest 
In Autumn eves : — The third Image was drest 
In white wings swift as clouds in winter skies, 
Beneath his feet, 'mongst ghastliest forms, represt 
Lay Faith, an obscene worm, who sought" to rise, 
While calmly on the Sun he turn'd his diamond eyes 

LI. 

Beside that Image then I sate, while she 
Stood, 'mid the throngs which ever ebb'd and flow'd 
Like light amid the shadows of the sea 
Cast from one cloudless star, and on the crowd 
That touch which none who feels forgets, bestow'd ; 
And whilst the sun return'd the stedfast gaze 
Of the great Image as o'er Heaven it glode. 
That rite had place ; it ceased when sunset's blaze 
Burn'd o'er the isles; all stood in joy and deep 
amaze. 

When in the silence of all spirits there 

Laone's voice was felt, and through the air 

Her thrilling gestures spoke, most eloquently fair. 



1. 

" Calm art thou as yon sunset ! swift and strong 
As new-fledged Eagles, beautiful and young, 
That float among the blinding beams of morning ; 
And underneath thy feet writhe Faith, and Folly, 
Custom, and Hell, and mortal Melancholy — 
Hark ! the Earth starts to hear the mighty warning 
Of thy voice sublime and holy ; 
Its free spirits here assembled. 
See thee, feel thee, know thee now, — 
To thy voice their hearts have trembled, 
Like ten thousand clouds which flow 
With one wide wind as it flies ! 
Wisdom ! tliy irresistible children rise 
To hail thee, and the elements they chain 
And their own will to swell the glory of thy train. 
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THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



25 



2. 

" O Spirit vast and deep as Night and Heaven ! 
Mother and soul of all to which" is given 
The light of life, the loveliness of being, 
Lo ! thou dost reascend the human heart, 
Thy throne of power, almighty as thou wert. 
In dreams of Poets old grown pale by seeing 
The shade of thee : — now, millions start 
To feel thy lightnings through them burning: 
Nature, or God, or Love, or Pleasure, 
Or Sympathy the sad tears turning 
To mutual smiles, a drainless treasure. 
Descends amidst us ; — Scorn and Hate, 
Revenge and Selfishness are desolate — 
A hundred nations swear that there shall be 
Pity and Peace and Love, among the good and free ! 



" Eldest of things, divine Equality! 
Wisdom and Love are but the slaves of thee. 
The Angels of thy sway, the poor around thee 
Treasures from all the cells of human thought, 
And from the Stars, and from the Ocean brought, 
And the last living heart whose beatings bound thee : 
The powerful and the wise had sought 
Thy coming, thou in light descending 
O'er the wide land which is thine own 
Like the spring whose breath is blending 
All blasts of fragrance into one, 
Comest upon the paths of men ! — 
Earth bares her general bosom to thy ken, 
And all her children here in glory meet 
To feed upon thy smiles, and clasp thy sacred feet. 



" My brethren, we are free ! the plains and mountains 
The gray sea-shore, the forests and the fountains, 
Are haunts of happiest dwellers ;— rmanand woman, 
Their common bondage burst, may freely borrow 
From lawless love a solace for their sorrow ; 
For oft we still must weep, since we are human. 
A stormy night's serenest morrow, 
Whose showers are pity's gentle tears, 
Whose clouds are smiles of those that die 
Like infants without hopes or fears. 
And whose beams are joys that lie 
In blended hearts, now holds dominion ; 
The dawn of mind, which upwards on a pinion 
Borne, swift as sunrise, far illumines space. 
And clasps this barren world in its own bright 
embrace ! 



" My brethren, we are free ! the fruits are glowing 
Beneath the stars, and the night- vidnds are flowing 
O'er the ripe corn, the birds and beasts are dream^ 

ing— 
Never again may blood of bird or beast 
Stain with its venomous stream a human feast ! 
To the pure skies in accusation steaming. 
Avenging poisons shall have ceased 

To feed disease and fear and madness, 

The dwellers of the earth and air 

Shall throng around our steps with gladness. 

Seeking their food or refuge there. 
Our toil from thought all glorious forms shall cull. 
To make this Earth, our home, more beautiful, 
2K 



And Science, and her sister Poesy, 

Shall clothe in hght the fields and cities of the free ! 



" Victory, Victory to the prostrate nations ! 
Bear witness Night, and ye mute Constellations 
Who gaze on us from your crystalline cars ! 
Thoughts have gone forth whose powers can sleep 

no more ! 
Victory! Victory! Earth's remotest shore. 
Regions which groan beneath the Antarctic stars, 
The green lands cradled in the roar 

Of western waves, and wildernesses 
Peopled and vast, which skirt the oceans 
Where morning dyes her golden tresses, 
Shall soon partake our high emotions : 
Kings shall turn pale! Almighty Fear, 
The Fiend-God, when our charmed name he hear, 
Shall fade like shadow from his thousand fanes, 
While Truth with Joy enthroned o'er his lost empire 
reigns ! " 

LIL 

Ere she had ceased, the mists of night entwining 
Their dim woof, floated o'er the infinite throng ; 
She, like a spirit through the darkness shining. 
In tones whose sweetness silence did prolong. 
As if to lingering winds they did belong, 
Pour'd forth her inmost soul : a passionate speech 
With wild and thrilling pauses woven among. 
Which whoso heard, was mute, for it could leach 
To rapture like her own all listening hearts to reach. 

LIIL 

Her voice was as a mountain stream which sweeps 
The wither'd leaves of Autumn to the lake. 
And in some deep and narrow bay then sleeps 
In the shadow of the shores; as dead leaves wake 
Under the wave, in flowers and herbs which make 
Those green depths beautiful when skies are blue. 
The multitude so moveless did partake 
Such living change, and kindling murmurs flew 
As o'er that speechless calm delight and wonder gre v\r. 

LIV. 

Over the plain the throngs were scatter'd then 
In groups around the fires, which from the sea 
Even tio the gorge of the first mountain glen 
Blazed wide and far : the banquet of the free 
Was spread beneath many a dark cypress-tree. 
Beneath whose spires, which sway'd in the red light. 
Reclining as they ate, of Liberty, 
And Hope, and Justice, and Laone's name. 
Earth's children did a woof of happy converse frame. 

LV. 

Their feast was such as Earth, the general mother. 
Pours from her fairest bosom, when she smiles 
In the embrace of Autumn ; — to each other 
As when some parent fondly reconciles 
Her warring children, she their wrath beguiles 
With her own sustenance ; they relenting weep. 
Such was this Festival, which from their isles 
And continents, and winds, and oceans deep. 
All shapes might throng to share, that fly, or walk, 
or creep. 

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LVI. 
Might share in peace and innocence, for gore 
Or poison none this festal did pollute, 
But piled on high, an overflowing store 
Of pomegranates, and citrons, fairest fruit, 
Melons, and dates, and figs, and many a root 
Sweet and sustaining, and bright grapes ere yet 
Accursed fire their mild juice could transmute 
Into a mortal bane, and brown corn set 
In baskets; with pure streams their thirsting lips 
they wet 

LVII. 

Laone had descended from the shrine. 
And every deepest look and holiest mind 
Fed on her form, though now those tones divine 
Were silent as she past ; she did unwind 
Her veil, as with the crowds of her own kind 
She mix'd ; some impulse made my heart refrain 
From seeking her that night, so I reclined 
Amidst a group, where on the utmost plain 
A festal watch-fire bum'd beside the dusky main. 

LVIII. 

And joyous was our feast ; pathetic talk, 
And wit, and harmony of choral strains. 
While far Orion o'er the waves did walk 
That flow among the isles, held us in chains 
Of sweet captivity, which none disdains 
Who feels : but when his zone grew dim in mist 
Which clothes the Ocean's bosom, o'er the plains 
The multitudes went homeward, to their rest. 
Which that dehghtful day with its own shadow blest. 



CANTO VI. 



I. 



Beside the dimness of the glimmering sea, 
Weaving swift language from impassion'd themes, 
With that dear friend I hnger'd, who to me 
So late had been restored, beneath the gleams 
Of the silver stars ; and ever in soft dreams 
Of future love and peace sweet converse lapt 
Our willing fancies, till the pallid beams 
Of the last watch-fire fell, and darkness wrapt 
The waves, and each bright chain of floating fire 
was snapt. 

II. 

And till we came even to the City's wall 
And the great gate, then, none knew whence or why, 
Disquiet on the multitudes did fall : 
And first, one pale and breathless past us by. 
And stared and spoke not; — then with piercing cry 
A troop of wild-eyed women, by the shrieks 
Of their own terror driven, — tumultuously 
Hither and thither hurrying with pale cheeks, 
Bach one from fear unknown a sudden refuge seeks — 



III. 

Then, rallying cries of treason and of danger 
Resounded: and — "They come! to arms! to arms 
The Tyrant is amongst us, and the stranger 
Comes to enslave us in his name ! to arms ! " 
In vain : for Panic, the pale fiend who charms 
Strength to forswear her right, those millions swept 
Like waves before the tempest — these alarms 
Came to me, as to know their cause I leapt 
On the gate's turret, and in rage and grief and scorn 
I wept! 

IV. 

For to the North I saw the town on fire, 
And its red light made morning paUid now, 
Which burst over wide Asia ; — louder, higher. 
The yells of victory and the screams of woe 
I heard approach, and saw the throng below 
Stream through the gates hke foam-wrought 

water-falls 
Fed from a thousand storms — the fearful glow 
Of bombs flares overhead — at intervals 
The red artillery's bolt mangling among them falls. 

V. 

And now the horsemen come — and all was done 
Swifter than I have spoken — I beheld 
Their red swords flash in the uprisen sun. 
I rush'd among the rout to have repell'd 
That miserable flight — one moment quell'd 
By voice, and looks and eloquent despair. 
As if reproach from their own hearts withheld 
Their steps, they stood ; but soon came pouring there 
New multitudes, and did those rallied bands o'erbear 

VI. 

I strove, as drifted on some cataract 
By irresistible streams, some wretch might strive 
Who hears its fatal roar : — the files compact 
Whelm'd me, and from the gate avail'd to drive 
With quickening impulse, as each bolt did rive 
Their ranks with bloodier chasm : — into the plain 
Disgorged at length the dead and the alive, 
In one dread mass, were parted, and the stain 
Of blood from mortal steel fell o'er the fields like rain. 

VII. 

For now the despot's blood-hounds with their prey, 
Unarm'd and unaware, were gorging deep 
Their gluttony of death ; the loose array 
Of horsemen o'er the wide fields murdering sweep, 
And with loud laughter for their tyrant reap 
A harvest sown with other hopes ; the while. 
Far overhead, ships from Propontis keep 
A killing rain of fire : — when the waves smile 
As sudden earthquakes light many a volcano isle. 

VIII. 

Thus sudden, unexpected feast was spread 
For the carrion fowls of Heaven. — I saw the sight— 
I moved — I lived — as o'er the heaps of dead. 
Whose stony eyes glared in the morning light, 
I trod ; — to me there came no thought of flight. 
But with loud cries of scorn which whoso heard 
That dreaded death, felt in his veins the might 
Of virtuous shame return, the crowd I stirr'd 
And desperation's hope in many hearts recurr'd. 
274 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



27 



IX. 

A band of brothers gathering round me, made, 
Although unarm'd, a stedfast front, and still 
Retreating, with stern looks beneath the shade 
Of gather'd eyebrows, did the victors fill 
With doubt even in success ; deliberate will 
Inspired our growing troop, not overthrown 
It gain'd the shelter of a grassy hill, 
And ever still our comrades were hewn down, 
And their defenceless limbs beneath our footsteps 
strown. 



Immovably we stood — in joy I found, 
Beside me then, firm as a giant pine 
Among the mountain vapors driven around. 
The old man whom I loved — his eyes divine 
With a mild look of courage answer'd mine. 
And my young friend was near, and ardently 
His hand grasp'd mine a moment — now the line 
Of war extended, to our rallying cry 
As myriads flock'd in love and brotherhood to die. 

XI. 

For ever while the sun was climbing Heaven 
The horsemen hew'd our unarm'd myriads down 
Safely, though when by thirst of carnage driven 
Too near, those slaves were swiftly overthrown 
By hundreds leaping on them : — flesh and bone 
Soon made our ghastly rampaj-ts ; then the shaft 
Of the artillery from the sea was thrown 
More fast and fiery, and the conquerors laugh'd 
In pride to hear the wind our screams of torment waft 

XII. 

For on one side alone the hill gave shelter, 

So vast that phalanx of unconquer'd men, 

And there the living in the blood did welter 

Of the dead and dying, which, in that green glen 

Like stifled torrents, made a plashy fen 

Under the feet — thus was the butchery waged 

While the sun clomb Heaven's eastern steep — but 

when 
It 'gan to sink — a fiercer combat raged, 
For in more doubtful strife the armies were engaged 



XIII. 
Within a cave upon the hill were found 
A bundle of rude pikes, the instrument 
Of those who war but on their native ground 
For natural rights : a shout of joyance sent 
Even from our hearts the wide air pierced and rent, 
As those few arms the bravest and the best 
Seized ; and each sixth, thus arm'd, did now present 
A line which cover'd and sustain'd the rest, 
A confident phalanx, which foes on every side invest. 

XIV. 

That onset tum'd the foes to flight almost; 
But soon they saw their present strength, and knew 
That coming night would to our resolute host 
Bring victory, so dismounting close they drew 
Their glittering files, and then the combat grew 
Unequal but most horrible ; — and ever 
Our myriads, whom the swift bolt overthrew. 
Or the red sword, fail'd like a mountain river 
Which rushes forth in foam to sink in sands for ever. 



XV. 

Sorrow and shame, to see with their own kind 
Our human brethren mix, like beasts of blood 
To mutual ruin arm'd by one behind 
Who sits and scoffs! — That friend so mild and good. 
Who like its shadow near my youth had stood. 
Was stabb'd ! — my old preserver's hoary hair. 
With the flesh clinging to its roots, was strew'd 
Under my feet! — I lost all sense or care, 
And like the rest I grew desperate and unaware. 

XVI. 

The battle became ghastlier — in the midst 
I paused, and saw, how ugly and how fell, 

Hate ! thou art, even when thy life thou shedd'st 
For love. The ground in many a little dell 
Was broken, up and down whose steeps befell 
Alternate victory and defeat, and there 

The combatants with rage most horrible 
Strove, and their eyes started with cracking stare, 
And impotent their tongues they loll'd into the air. 

XVII. 

Flaccid and foamy, like a mad dog's hanging*; 
Want, and Moon-madness, and the Pest's swift bane ; 
When its shafts smite — while yet its bow is twang- 
ing— 
Have each their mark and sign — some ghastly stain ; 
And this was thine, O War ! of hate and pain 
Thou lothed slave. I saw all shapes of death 
And minister'd to many, o'er the plain. 
While carnage in the sunbeam's warmth did seethe, 
Till twilight o'er the east wove her serenest wreath. 

xvni. 

The few who yet survived, resolute and firm 
Around me fought. At the decline of day 
Winding above the mountain's snowy term 
New baimers shone : they quiver'd in the ray 
Of the sun's unseen orb — ere night the array 
Of fresh troops hemm'd us in — of those brave bands 

1 soon survived alone — and now I lay 
Vanquish'd and faint, the grasp of bloody hands 

I felt, and saw on high the glare of falling brands : 

XIX. 

When on my foes a sudden terror came, 
And they fled, scattering — lo ! with reinless speed 
A black Tartarian horse of giant frame 
Comes trampling o'er the dead, the living bleed 
Beneath the hoofs of that tremendous steed, 
On which, like to an Angel, robed in white. 
Sate one waving a sword ; — the hosts recede 
And fly, as through their ranks with awful might. 
Sweeps in the shadow of eve that Phantom swift 
and bright ; 



XX. 

And its path made a solitude.— I rose 
And mark'd its coming: it relax'd its course 
As it approach'd me, and the wind that flows 
Through night, bore accents to mine ear whose force 
Might create smiles in death — the Tartar horse 
Paused, and I saw the shape its might which sway'd, 
And heard her musical pants, like the sweet source 
Of waters in the desert, as she said, 
" Mount with me, Laon, now." — I rapidly obey'd. 
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XXI. 

Then: "Away! away!" she cried, and stretch'd 

her sword 
As 'twere a scourge over the courser's head, 
And lightly shook the reins: — We spake no word, 
But like the vapor of the tempest fled 
Over the plain ; her dark hair was dispread 
Like the pine's locks upon the lingering blast; 
Over mine eyes its shadowy strings it spread. 
Fitfully, and the hills and streams fled fast, 
As o'er their glimmering forms the steed's broad 

shadow past. 

XXII. 

And his hoofs ground the rocks to fire and dust, 
His strong sides made the torrents rise in spray ; 
And turbulence, as of a whirlwind's gust, 
Surrounded us ; — and still away ! away ! 
Through the desert night we sped, while she alway 
Gazed on a mountain which we near'd, whose crest 
Crown'd with a marble ruin, in the ray 
Of the obscure stars gleam'd ; — its rugged breast 
The steed strain'd up, and then his impulse did arrest. 

XXIII. 

A rocky hill which overhung the. Ocean : — 
From that lone ruin, when the steed that panted 
Paused, might be heard the murmur of the motion 
Of w'aters, as in spots for ever haunted 
By the choicest winds of Heaven, which are 

enchanted 
To music, by the wand of Solitude, 
That wizard wild, and the far tents implanted 
Upon the plain, be seen by those who stood 
Thence marking the dark shore of Ocean's curved flood. 

XXIV. 
One moment these were heard and seen — another 
Past ; and the two who stood beneath that night, 
Each only heard, or saw, or felt the other; 
As from the lofty steed she did alight, 
Cythna (for, from the eyes whose deepest light 
Of love and sadness made my lips feel pale 
With influence strange of mournfullest delight, 
My own sweet Cythna look'd), with joy did quail, 
And felt her strength in tears of human weakness fail. 

XXV. 

And, for a space in my embrace she rested. 
Her head on my unquiet heart reposing. 
While my faint arms her languid frame invested : 
At length she look'd on me, and half unclosing 
Her tremulous lips, said: "Friend, thy bands were 

losing 
The battle, as I stood before the King 
In bonds. — I burst them then, and swiftly choosing 
The time, did seize a Tartar's sword, and spring 
Upon his horse, and swift as on the whirlwind's wing, 

XXVI. 
" Have thou and I been borne beyond pursuer. 
And we are here." — Then turning to the steed, 
She press'd the white moon on his front with pure 
And rose-like lips, and many a fragrant weed 
From the green ruin pluck'd, that he might feed ; — 
But I to a stone seat that Maiden led. 
And kissing her fair eyes, said, " Thou hast need 
Of rest," and I heap'd up the courser's bed 
In a green mossy nook, with mountain flowers dispread. 



XXVII. 

Within that ruin, where a shafter'd portal 
Looks to the ea.ifern stars, abandon'd now 
By man, to be the home of things immortal, 
Memories, like awful ghosts which come and go. 
And must inherit all he builds below. 
When he is gone, a hall stood ; o'er whose roof 
Fair clinging weeds w ith ivy pale did grow, 
Clasping its gray rents with a verdurous woof, 
A hanging dome of leaves, a canopy moon-proof. 



XXVIII. 
The autumnal winds, as if spell-bound, had made 
A natural couch of leaves in that recess. 
Which seasons none disturb'd, but in the shade 
Of flowering parasites, did spring love to dress 
With their sweet blooms the wintry loneliness 
Of those dead leaves, shedding their stars, whene'er 
The wandering wind her nurshngs might caress ; 
Whose intertwining fingers ever there. 
Made music wild and soft that fiU'd the listening air 

XXIX. 

We know not where we go, or what sweet dream 
May pilot us through caverns strange and fair 
Of far and pathless passion, while the stream 
Of life our bark doth on its whirlpools bear, 
Spreading swift wings as sails to the dim air ; 
Nor should we seek to know, so the devotion 
Of love and gentle thoughts be heard still there 
Louder and louder from the utmost Ocean 
Of universal life, attuning its commotion. 

XXX. 

To the pure all things are pure ! Oblivion wrapt 
Our spirits, and the fearful overthrow 
Of public hope was from our being snapt, 
Though linked years had bound it there ; for now 
A power, a thirst, a knowledge, which below 
All thoughts, like light beyond the atmosphere, 
Clothing its clouds with grace, doth ever flow, 
Came on us, as we sate in silence there, 
Beneath the golden stars of the clear azure air. 

XXXI. 

In silence which doth follow talk that causes 
The baffled heart to speak with sighs and tears, 
When wildering passion swalloweth up the pauses 
Of inexpressive speech : — the youthful years 
Which we together past, their hopes and fears, 
The blood itself which ran within our frames. 
That likeness of the features which endears 
The thoughts express'd by them, our very names. 
And all the winged hours which speechless memory 
claims, 

XXXII. 

Had found a voice : — and ere that voice did pass. 
The night grew damp and dim, and through a rent 
Of the ruin where we sate, from the morass, 
A wandering meteor by some wild wind sent, 
Hung high in the green dome, to which it lent 
A faint and pallid lustre ; while the song 
Of blasts, in which its blue hair quivering bent, 
Strew'd strangest sounds the moving leaves among; 
A wondrous light, the sound as of a spirit's tongue. 
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THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



29 



xxxni. 

The meteor show'd the leaves on which we sate, 
And Cythna's glowing arms, and the thick ties 
Of her soft hair, which bent with gather'd weight 
My neck near hers, her dark and deepening eyes, 
Which, as twin phantoms of one star that lies 
O'er a dim well, move, though the star reposes. 
Swam in our mute and liquid ecstasies, 
Her marble brow, and eager lips, like roses, 
With their own fragrance pale, which spring but half 
uncloses. 

XXXIV. 
The meteor to its far morass return'd : 
The beating of our veins one interval 
Made still ; and then I felt the blood that burn'd 
Within her frame, mingle with mine, and fall 
Around my heart like fire ; and over all 
A mist was spread, the sickness of a deep 
And speechless swoon of joy, as might befall 
Two disunited spirits when they leap 
In union from this earth's obscure and fading sleep. 

XXXV. 

Was it one moment that confounded thus 
All thought, all sense, all feeling, into one 
Unutterable power, which shielded us 
Even from our own cold loofe, when we had gone 
Into a wide and wild oblivion 
Of tumult and of tenderness ? or now 
Had ages, such as make the moon and sun, 
The seasons, and mankind their changes know, 
Left fear and time unfelt by us alone below ? 



XXXVI. 

I know not. What are kisses whose fire clasps 
The failing heart in languishment, or limb 
Twined within limb ? or the quick dying gasps 
Of the life meeting, when the faint eyes swim 
Through tears of a wide mist boundless and dim, 
In one caress ? What is the strong control 
Which leads the heart that dizzy steep to climb, 
Where far over the world those vapors roll, 
Which blend two restless frames in one reposing soul? 

XXXVII. 
It is the shadow which doth float unseen, 
But not unfelt, o'er blind mortality, 
WTiose divine darkness fled not, from that green 
And lone recess, where lapt in peace did lie 
Our linked frames ; till, from the changing sky. 
That night and still another day had fled ; 
And then I saw and felt. The moon was high, 
And clouds, as of a coming storm, were spread 
Under its orb, — loud winds were gathering overhead. 

XXXVIII. 

Cythna's sweet lips seem'd lurid in the moon, 
Her fairest limbs with the night wind were chill, 
And her dark tresses were all loosely strewn 
O'er her pale bosom : — all within was still, 
And the sweet peace of joy did almost fill 
The depth of her unfathomable look ; — 
And we sate calmly, though that rocky hill. 
The waves contending in its caverns strook, 
For they foreknew the storm, and the gray ruin shook. 



XXXIX. 

There we unheeding sate, in the communion 
Of interchanged vows, which, with a rite 
Of faith most sweet and sacred, stamp'd our union. — 
Few were the living hearts which could unite 
Like ours, or celebrate a bridal night 
With such close sympathies, for they had sprung 
From linked youth, and from the gentle might 
Of earliest love, delay'd and cherish'd long, 
Which common hopes and fears made, like a tempest, 
strong. 

XL. 

And such is Nature's law divine, that those 
Who grow together cannot choose but love, 
If faith or custom do not interpose. 
Or common slavery mar what else might move 
All gentlest thoughts ; as in the sacred grove 
Which shades the springs of Ethiopian Nile, 
That living tree, which, if the arrowy dove 
Strike with her shadow, shrinks in fear awhile, 
But its own kindred leaves clasps while the sunbeams 
smile ; 

XLL 

And clings to them, when darkness may dissever 
The close caresses of all duller plants 
Which bloom on the wide earth — thus we for ever 
Were link'd, for love had nurst us in the haimts 
Where knowledge, from its secret source, enchants 
Young hearts with the fresh music of its springing. 
Ere yet its gather'd flood feeds human wants. 
As the great Nile feeds Egypt ; ever flinging 
Light on the woven boughs which o'er its waves are 
swinging. 

XLII. 

The tones of Cythna's voice like echoes were 
Of those far murmuring streams ; they rose and fell, 
Mix'd with mine own in the tempestuous air, — 
And so we sate, until our talk befell . 
Of the late ruin, swift and horrible. 
And how those seeds of hope might yet be sown. 
Whose fruit is evil's mortal poison : well. 
For us, this ruin made a watch-tower lone, 
But Cythna's eyes look'd faint, and now two days 
were gone 

XLIII. 
Since she had food : — therefore I did awaken 
The Tartar steed, who, from his ebon mane. 
Soon as the clinging slumbers he had shaken 
Bent his thin head to seek the brazen rein, 
Following me obediently ; vidth pain 
Of heart, so deep and dread, that one caress. 
When lips and heart refuse to part again, * 
Till they have told their fill, could scarce express 
The anguish of her mute and fearful tenderness. 

XLIV. 

Cythna beheld me part, as I bestrode 
That willing steed — the tempest and the night, 
Which gave my path its safety as I rode 
Down the ravine of rocks, did soon unite. 
The darkness and the tumult of their might 
Borne on all winds. — Far through the streaming rain 
Floating at intervals the garments white 
Of Cythna gleam'd, and her voice once again 
Came to me on the gust, and soon I reach'd the plain- 
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no 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XLV. 
I dreaded not the tempest, nor did he 
Who bore me, but his eyeballs wide and red 
Turn'd on the lightning's cleft exultingly ; 
And when the earth beneath his tameless tread, 
Shook with the sullen thunder, he would spread 
His nostrils to the blast, and joyoxisly 
Mock the fierce peal with neighings; — thus we sped 
O'er the lit plain, and soon I could descry 
Where Death and Fire had gorged the spoil of victory. 

XLVL 

There was a desolate village in a wood, 
Whose bloom-inwoven leaves now scattering fed 
The hungry storm ; it was a place of blood, 
A heap of hearthless walls ; — the flames were dead 
Within those dwellings now, — the life had fled 
From all those corpses now, — but the wide sky 
Flooded with lightning was ribb'd overhead 
By the black rafters, and around did lie 
Women, and babes, and men, slaughter'd confusedly. 

XLVII. 
Beside the fountain in the market-place 
Dismounting, I beheld those corpses stare 
With horny eyes upon each other's face. 
And on the earth and on the vacant air. 
And upon me, close to the waters where 
I stoop'd to slake my thirst ; — I shrank to taste, 
For the salt bitterness of blood was there ; 
But tied the steed beside, and sought in haste 
If any yet survived amid that ghastly waste. 

XLVIII. 

No living thing was there beside one woman. 
Whom I found wandering in the streets, and she 
Was wither'd from a likeness of aught human 
Into a fiend, by some strange misery : 
Soon as she heard my steps she leap'd on me. 
And glued her burning lips to mine, and laugh'd 
With a loud, long, and frantic laugh of glee, 
And cried, " Now, Mortal, thou hast deeply quafF'd 
The Plague's blue kisses — soon millions shall pledge 
the draught! 

XLIX. 

" My name is Pestilence — this bosom dry. 
Once fed two babes — a sister and a brother — 
When I came home, one in the blood did lie 
Of three death- wounds — the flames had ate the other! 
Since then I have no longer been a mother, 
But I am Pestilence ; — hither and thither 
I flit about, that I may slay and smother ;— 
All lips which I have kiss'd must surely wither. 
But Death's — if thou art he, we'll go to work together! 

L. 

" What seek'st thou here? the moonlight comes in 



The dew is rising dankly from the dell — 
'Twill moisten her ! and thou shalt see the gashes 
In my sweet boy, now full of worms— but tell 
First what thou seek'st."—" I seek for food."—" 'Tis 

well, 
Thou shalt have food ; Famine, my paramour, 
Waits for us at the feast — cruel and fell 
Is Famine, but he drives not from his door 
Those whom these lips have kiss'd, alone. No more, 

no more!" 



LI. 
As thus she spake, she grasp'd me with the strength 
Of madness, and by many a ruin'd hearth 
She led, and over many a corpse : — at length 
We came to a lone hut, where on the earth 
Which made its floor, she in her ghastly mirth 
Gathering from all those homes now desolate, 
Had "piled three heaps of loaves, making a dearth 
Among the dead — round which she set in state 
A ring of cold, stiff babes; silent and stark they sate, 

LIL 

She leap'd upon a pile, and lifted high 
Her mad looks to the lightning, and cried : " Eat ! 
Share the great feast — to-morrow we must die ! " 
And then she spurn'd the loaves with her pale feet. 
Towards her bloodless guests ; — that sight to meet, 
Mine eyes and my heart ached, and but that she 
Who loved me, did with absent looks defeat 
Despair, I might have raved in sympathy ; 
But now I took the food that woman oflfer'd me ; 

LIIL 
And vainly having with her madness striven 
If I might win her to return with me. 
Departed. In the eastern beams of Heaven 
The lightning now grew pallid — rapidly, 
As by the shore of the tempestuous sea 
The dark steed bore me, and the moiuitain gray 
Soon echoed to his hoofs, and I could see 
Cythna among the rocks, where she alway 
Had sate, with araious eyes fix'd on the lingering day. 

LIV. 

And joy was ours to meet : she was most pale, 
Famish'd, and wet and weaiy, so I cast 
My arms around her, lest her steps should fail 
As to our home we went, and thus embraced, 
Her full heart seem'd a deeper joy to taste 
Than e'er the prosperous know ; the steed behind 
Trod peacefully along the mountain waste. 
We reached our home ere morning could unbind 
Night's latest veil, and on our bridal couch reclined. 

LV. 

Her chill'd heart having cherish'd in my bosom, 
And sweetest kisses past, we two did share 
Our peaceful meal : — as an autumnal blossom 
Which spreads its shrunk leaves in the sunny air, 
After cold showers, like rainbows woven there, 
Thus in her lips and cheeks the vital spirit 
Mantled, and in her eyes, an atmosphere 
Of health, and hope ; and sorrow languish'd near it, 
And fear, and all that dark despondence doth inherit 
278 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM, 



81 



CANTO VIL 



I. 

So we sate joyous as the morning ray 
Which fed upon the wrecks of night and storm 
Now lingering on the winds ; light airs did play 
Among the dewy weeds, the sun was warm, 
And we sate link'd in the inwoven charm 
Of converse and caresses sweet and deep, 
Speechless caresses, talk that might disarm 
Time, though he wield the darts of death and sleep, 
And those thrice mortal barbs in his own poison steep. 

n. 

I told her of ray sufferings and my madness. 
And how, awaken'd from that dreamy mood 
By Liberty's uprise, the strength of gladness 
Came to my spirit in my solitude ; 
And all that now I was, while tears pursued 
Each other down her fair and listening cheek 
Fast as the thoughts which fed them, like a flood 
From sunbright dales ; and when I ceased to speak 
Her accents soft and sweet the passing air did wake 

III. 

She told me a strange tale of strange endurance, 
Like broken memories of many a heart 
Woven into one ; to which no firm assurance. 
So wild were they, could her own faith impart. 
She said that not a tear did dare to start 
From the swoln brain, and that her thoughts were 

firm 
When fi-om all mortal hope she did depart, 
Borne by those slaves across the Ocean's term, 
And that she reach'd the port without one fear infirm. 

IV. 

One was she among many there, the thralls 
Of the cold Tyrant's cruel lust : and they 
Laugh'd mournfully in those polluted halls ; 
But she was calm and sad, musing alway 
On loftiest enterprise, till on a day 
The Tyrant heard her singing to her lute 
A wild, and sad, and spirit-thrilling lay. 
Like winds that die in wastes — one moment mute 
The evil thoughts it made, which did his breast pollute. 



Even when he saw her wondrous loveliness, 
One moment to great Nature's sacred power 
He bent, and was no longer passionless ; 
But when he bade her to his secret bower 
Be borne a loveless victim, and she tore 
Her locks in agony, and her words of flame 
And mightier looks avail'd not ; then he bore 
Again his load of slavery, and became 
A king, a heartless beast, a pageant and a name. 



VI. 

She told me what a lothesome agony 
Is that when selfishness mocks love's delight, 
Foul as in dreams most fearful imagery 
To dally with the moving dead — that night 
All torture, fear, or horror made seem light, 
Which the soul dreams or knows, and when the day 
Shone on her awful frenzy, from the sight 
Where hke a Spirit in fleshly chains she lay 
Strugghng, aghast and pale the Tyrant fled away. 

VII. 

Her madness was a beam of light, a power 
Which dawn'd through the rent soul; and words it 

gave, 
Gestures and looks, such as in whirlwinds bore 
Which might not be withstood, whence none could 

save 
All who approach'd their sphere, like some calm 

wave 
Vex'd into whirlpools by the chasms beneath ; 
And sympathy made each attendant slave 
Fearless and free, and they began to breathe 
Deep curses, like the voice of flames far underneath. 

VIII. 

The King felt pale upon his noonday throne : 
At night two slaves he to her chamber sent. 
One was a green and wrinkled eunuch, grown 
From human shape into an instrument 
Of all things ill — distorted, bow'd and bent. 
The other was a wretch from infancy 
Made dumb by poison ; who naught knew or meant 
But to obey : from the fire-isles came he, 
A diver lean and strong, of Oman's coral sea. 

IX. 

They bore her to a bark, and the swift stroke 
Of silent rowers clove the blue moonlight seas, 
Until upon their path the morning broke ; 
They anchor'd then, where, be there calm or breeze. 
The gloomiest of the drear Symplegades 
Shakes with the sleepless surge ; — the ^thiop there 
Wound his long arms around her, and with knees 
Like iron clasp'd her feet, and plunged Avith her 
Among the closing waves out of tiie boundless air. 

X. 

" Swift as an eagle stooping from the plain 
Of morning light, into some shadoAvy wood, 
He plunged through the green silence of the main, 
Through many a cavern which the eternal flood 
Had scoop'd, as dark lairs for its monster brood ; 
And among mighty shapes which fled in wonder, 
And among mightier shadows which pursued 
His heels, he wound : until the dark rocks under 
He touch'd a golden chain — a sound arose like thunder. 

XI. 

" A stunning clang of massive bolts redoubling 
Beneath the deep — a burst of waters driven 
As from the roots of the sea, raging and bubbling 
And in that roof of crags a space was riven 
Through which there shone the emerald beams of 

heaven, 
Shot through the lines of many waves inwoven, 
Like sunlight through acacia woods at even, 
Through which, his way the diver having cloven, 
Past like a spark sent up out of a burning ovwi. 
279 



32 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XII. 

" And then," she said, " he laid me in a cave 
Above the waters, by that chasm of sea, 
A fountain round and vast, in which the wave 
Imprison'd, boil'd and leap'd perpetually, 
Down which, one moment resting, he did flee, 
Winning the adverse depth ; that spacious cell 
Like an upaithric temple wide and high, 
Whose aery dome is inaccessible, 
Was pierced with one round cleft through which the 
sunbeams fell. 

xni. 

" Below, the fountain's brink was richly paven 
With the deep's wealth, coral, and pearl, and sand 
Like spangling gold, and purple shells engraven 
With mystic legends, by no mortal hand 
Left there, when thronging to the moon's command, 
The gathering waves rent the Hesperian gate 
Of mountains, and on such bright floor did stand 
Columns, and shapes like statues, and the state 

Of kingless thrones, which Earth did in her heart 
create. 

XIV. 
" The fiend of madness which had made its prey 
Of my poor heart, was lull'd to sleep awhile : 
There was an interval of many a day. 
And a sea-eagle brought me food the while, 
Whose nest was built in that untrodden isle, 
And who, to be the jailor had been taught, 
Of that strange dungeon ; as a friend whose smile 
Like light and rest at mom and even is sought. 

That wild bird was to me, till madness misery brought. 

XV. 
" The misery of a madness slow and creeping, 
Which made the earth seem fire, the sea seem air. 
And the white clouds of noon which oft were 

sleeping. 
In the blue heaven so beautiful and fair, 
Like hosts of ghastly shadows hovering there ; 
And the sea-eagle look'd a fiend, who bore 
Thy mangled limbs for food ! — thus all things were 
Transform'd into the agony which I wore 
Even as a poison'd robe around my bosom's core 

XVI. 

" Again I knew the day and night fast fleeing, 
The eagle, and the fountain, and the air ; 
Another frenzy came — there seem'd a being 
Within me — a strange load my heart did bear, 
As if some living thing had made its lair 
Even in the fountains of my life : — a long 
And wondrous vision wrought from my despair, 
Then grew, like sweet reality among 
Dim visionary woes, an unreposing throng. 

XVII. 
" Methought I was about to be a mother — 
Month after month went by, and still I dream'd 
That we should soon be all to one another, 
I and my child ; and still new pulses seem'd 
To beat beside my heart, and still I deem'd 
There was a babe within — and when the rain 
Of winter through the rifted cavern stream'd, 
Methought, after a lapse of lingering pain, 
I saw that lovely shape, wliich near my heart had 
lain. 



XVIII. 
" It was a babe, beautiful from its birth. — 
It was like thee, dear love ! its eyes were thine. 
Its brow, its lips, and so upon the earth 
It laid its fingers, as now rest on mine 
Thine own beloved : — 'twas a dream divine ; 
Even to remember how it fled, how swift, 
Hovy utterly, might make the heart repine, — 
Though 'twas a dream." — Then Cythna did uplift 

Her looks on mine, as if some doubt she sought to 
shift : 

XIX. 
A doubt which would not flee, a tenderness 
Of questioning grief a source of thronging tears ; 
Which, having past, as one whom sobs opprest, 
She spoke : " Yes, in the wilderness of years 
Her memory, aye, like a green home appears, 
She suck'd her fill even at this breast, sweet love. 
For many months. I had no mortal fears ; 
Methought I felt her lips and breath approve,— 

It was a human thing which to my bosom clove. 

XX. 

" I watch'd the dawn of her first smiles, and soon 
When zenith-stars were trembhng on the wave, 
Or when the beams of the invisible moon, 
Or sun, from many a prism within the cave. 
Their gem-born shadows to the water gave, 
Her looks would hunt them, and with outspread 

hand, 
From the swift lights which might that fountain 

pave. 
She would mark one, and laugh, when that coiD' 

mand 
Slighting, it linger'd there, and could not imderstand. 



" Methought her looks began to talk with me ; 
And no articulate sounds, but something sweet 
Her lips would frame, — so sweet it could not be, 
That it was meaningless : her touch would meet 
Mine, and our pulses calmly flow and beat 
In response while we slept ; and on a day 
WTien I was happiest in that strange retreat. 
With heaps of golden shells we two did play, — 
Both infants, weaving wings for time's perpetual way. 

xxn. 

" Ere night, methought, her waning eyes were 

grown 
Weary with joy, and, tired with our delight. 
We, on the earth, like sister twins lay down 
On one fair mother's bosom ; — from that night 
She fled ; — like those illusions clear and bright. 
Which dwell in lakes, when the red moon on high 
Pause ere it wakens tempest ; — and her flight, 
Though 'twas the death of brainless phantasy, 
Yet smote my lonesome heart more than all misery. 

XXIII. 
"It seem'd that in the dreary night, the diver 
Who brought me thither, came again, and bore 
My child away. I saw the waters quiver, 
W^hen he so swiftly sunk, as once before : 
Then morning came — it shone even as of yore, 
But I was changed — the very life was gone 
Out of my heart — I wasted more and more, 
Day after day, and sitting there alone, 
Vex'd the inconstant waves with my perpetual moaD 
280 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



33 



XXIV. 
" I was no longer mad, and yet methought 
My breasts were swoln and changed : — in every vein 
The blood stood still one moment, while that thought 
Was passing — with a gush of sickening pain 
It ebb'd even to its wither'd springs again : 
When my wan eyes in stern resolve I turn'd 
From that most strange delusion, which would fain 
Have waked the dream for which my spirit yearn'd 
With more than human love, — then left it unre turn'd- 

XXV. 

" So, now my reason was restored to me, 

I struggled with that dream, which, like a beast 

Most fierce and beauteous, in my memory 

Had made its lair, and on my heart did feast ; 

But all that cave and all its shapes possest 

By thoughts which could not fade, renew'd each one 

Some smile, some look, some gesture which had 

blest 
Me heretofore : I, sitting there alone, 
Vex'd the inconstant waves with my perpetual moan. 

XXVI. 
" Time past, I know not whether months or years ; 
For day, nor night, nor change of seasons made 
Its note, but thoughts and unavailing tears : 
And I became at last even as a shade, 
A smoke, a cloud on which the winds have prey'd, 
Till it be thin as air ; until, one even, 
A Nautilus upon the fountain play'd. 
Spreading his azure sail where breath of Heaven 
Descended not, among the waves and whirlpools 
driven. 

XXVII. 

" And when the Eagle came, that lovely thing. 
Oaring with rosy feet its silver boat. 
Fled near me as for shelter ; on slow wing. 
The Eagle, hovering o'er his prey, did float ; 
But when he saw that I with fear did note 
His purpose, proffering my own food to him, 
The eager plumes subsided on his throat — 
He came where that bright child of sea did swim. 
And o'er it cast in peace his shadow broad and dim. 

XXVIII. 

" This waken'd me, it gave me human strength ; 
And hope, I know not whence or wherefore, rose, 
But I resumed my ancient powers at length ; 
My spirit felt again like one of those, 
like thine, whose fate it is to make the woes 
Of human-kind their prey — what was this cave ? 
Its deep foundation no firm purpose knows, 
Immutable, resistless, strong to save, 
Like mind while yet it mocks the alWevouring grave. 

XXIX. 

" And where was Laon ? might my heart be dead. 
While that far dearer heart could move and be ? 
Or whilst over the earth the pall was spread. 
Which I had sworn to rend ? I might be free. 
Could I but win that friendly bird to me. 
To bring me ropes ; and long in vain I sought . 
By intercourse of mutual imagery 
Of objects, if such aid he could be taught ; 
But fruit, and flowers, and boughs, yet never ropes 
he brought. 

2L 



XXX. 

" We live in our own world, and mine was made 
From glorious phantasies of hope departed : 
Aye, we are darken'd with their floating shade. 
Or cast a lustre on them — time imparted 
Such power to me, I became fearless-hearted. 
My eye and voice grew firm, calm was my mind, 
And piercing, like the morn, now it has darted 
Its lustre on all hidden things, behind 
Yon dim and fading clouds which load the weary wind. 

XXXI. 

" My mind became the book through which I grew 
Wise in all human wisdom, and its cave. 
Which like a mine I rifled through and through, 
To me the keeping of its secrets gave — 
One mind, the type of all, the moveless wave 
Whose calm reflects all moving things that are. 
Necessity, and love, and life, the grave. 
And sympathy, fountains of hope and fear ; 
Justice, and truth, and time, and the world's natural 
sphere. 

XXXII. 

" And on the sand would I make signs to range 
These woofs, as they were woven, of my thought ; 
Clear, elemental shapes, whose smallest change 
A subtler language within language wrought : 
The key of truths which once were dimly taught 
In old Crotona ; — and sweet melodies 
Of love, in that lone solitude I caught 
From mine own voice in dream, when thy dear eyes 
Shone through my sleep, and did that utterance har- 
monize. 

XXXIII. 
" Thy songs were winds whereon I fled at will, 
As in a winged chariot, o'er the plain 
Of crystal youth : and thou wert there to fill 
My heart with joy, and there we sate again 
On the gray margin of the glimmering main, 
Happy as then, but wiser far, for we 
Smiled on the flowery grave in which were lain 
Fear, Faith, and Slavery ; and mankind was free. 
Equal, and pure and wise, in wisdom's prophecy. 

XXXIV. 

" For to my will my fancies were as slaves 
To do their sweet and subtile ministries ; 
And oft from that bright fountain's shadowy waves 
They would make human throngs gather and rise 
To combat with my overflowing eyes. 
And voice made deep with passion — thus I grew 
Familiar with the shock and the surprise 
And war of earthly minds, from which I drew 
The power which has been mine to frame their 
thoughts anew. 

XXXV. 

" And thus my prison was the populous earth — 
Where I saw — even as misery dreams of mom 
Before the east has given its glory birth — 
Religion's pomp made desolate by the scorn 
Of Wisdom's faintest smile, and thrones uptom, 
And dwellings of mild people interspersed 
With undivided fields of ripening corn, 
And love made free, — a hope which we have nurst 
Even with our blood and tears, — until its glory burst 
281 



34 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXXVI. 

" All is not lost ! there is some recompense 
For hope whose fountain can be thus profound, 
Even throned Evil's splendid impotence, 
Girt by its hell of power, the secret sound 
Of hymns to truth and freedom — the dread bound 
Of life and death past fearlessly and well. 
Dungeons wherein the high resolve is found, 
Racks which degraded woman's greatness tell. 
And what may else be good and irresistible. 

XXXVII. 

" Such are the thoughts which, like the fires that flare 
In storm- encompass'd isles, we cherish yet 
In this dark ruin — such were mine even there ; 
As in its sleep some odorous violet, 
While yet its leaves with nightly dews are wet. 
Breathes in prophetic dreams of day's uprise. 
Or, as ere Scythian frost in fear has met 
Spring's messengers descending from the skies. 
The buds foreknew their life — this hope must ever rise. 

XXXVIII. 

" So years had past, when sudden earthquake rent 
The depth of ocean, and the cavern crackt 
With sound, as if the world's wide continent 
Had fallen in universal ruin wrackt ; 
And through the cleft stream'd in one cataract, 
The stifling waters : — when I woke, the flood 
Whose banded waves that crystal cave had sack'd 
Was ebbing round me, and my bright abode 
Before me yawn'd — a chasm, desert, and bare, and 
broad. 

XXXTX. 

" Above me was the sky, beneath the sea : 
I stood upon a point of shatter'd stone, 
And heard loose rocks rushing tumultuously 
With splash and shock into the deep — anon 
All ceased, and there was silence wide and lone. 
I felt that I was free ! the Ocean-spray 
Quiver'd beneath my feet, the broad Heaven shone 
Around, and in my hair the winds did play 
Lingering as they pursued their unimpeded way. 



XL. 

" My spirit moved upon the sea like wind 
Which round some thymy cape will lag and hover. 
Though it can wake the still cloud, and unbind 
The strength of tempest : day was almost over, 
When through the fading light I could discover 
A ship approaching — its white sails were fed 
With the north wind — its moving shade did cover 
The twilight deep ; — the mariners in dread 
Cast anchor when they saw new rocks around them 
spread. 

XLI. 

" And when they saw one sitting on a crag, 
They sent a boat to me ; the sailors row'd 
In awe through many a new and fearful jag 
Of overhanging rock, through which there flow'd 
The foam of streams that cannot make abode. 
They came and question'd me, but when they heard 
My voice, they became silent, and they stood 
And moved as men in whom new love had stirr'd 
Deep thoughts : so to the ship we past without a 
word. I 



CANTO VIIL 



I. 

" I SATE beside the steersman then, and gazing 
Upon the west, cried, ' Spread the sails ! behold ! 
The sinking moon is like a watch-tower blazing 
Over the mountains yet ; — the City of Gold 
Yon Cape alone does from the sight withhold ; 
The stream is fleet — the north breathes steadily 
Beneath the stars, they tremble with the cold ! 
Ye cannot rest upon the dreary sea ! — 
Haste, haste to the warm home of happier destiny! 

II. 

" The Mariners obey'd — the Captain stood 
Aloof, and whispering to the Pilot, said, 
' Alas, alas ! I fear we are pursued 
By wicked ghosts: a Phantom of the Dead, 
The night before we sail'd, came to my bed 
In dream, like that ! ' — The Pilot then replied, 
* It cannot be — she is a human Maid — 
Her low voice makes you weep — she is some bride. 
Or daughter of high birth — she can be naught beside.' 

III. 

" We past the islets, borne by vdnd and stream, 
And as we sail'd, the Mariners came near 
And throng'd around to listen ; — in the gleam 
Of the pale moon I stood, as one whom fear 
May not attaint, and my calm voice did rear : 
Ye all are human — yon broad moon gives light 
To millions who the self-same likeness wear. 
Even while I speak — beneath this very night. 
Their thoughts flow on like ours, in sadness or delight. 

IV. 

" What dream ye ? Your own hands have built a 

home, 
Even for yourselves on a beloved shore : 
For some, fond eyes are pining till they come. 
How they will greet him when his toils are o'er. 
And laughing babes rush from the well-known door! 
Is this your care ? ye toil for your own good — 
Ye feel and think — has some immortal Power 
Such purposes ? or in a human mood. 
Dream ye some Power thus builds for man in solitude? 



" What is that Power? ye mock yourselves, and give 
A human heart to what ye cannot know : 
As if the cause of life could think and live ! 
'T were as if man's own works should feel, and show 
The hopes, and feai-s, and thoughts from which they 

flow, 
And he be hke to them. Lo ! Plague is free 
To waste, Blight, Poison, Earthquake, Hail, and 

Snow, 
Disease, and Want, and worse Necessity 
Of hate and ill, and Pride, and Fear, and Tyranny. 
282 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



35 



VI, 

" What is that Power ? Some moon-struck sophist 

stood 
Watching the shade from his own soul upthrown 
Fill Heaven and darken Earth, and in such mood 
The Form he saw and worshipp'd was his own, 
His hkeness in the world's vast mirror shown ; 
And 't were an innocent dream, but that a faith 
Nursed by fear's dew of poison, grows thereon, 
And that men say, that Power has chosen Death 
On all who scorn its laws, to wreak immortal wrath. 

VII. 

" Men say that they themselves have heard and 

seen. 
Or known from others who have known such things, 
A Shade, a Form, which Earth and Heaven between 
Wields an invisible rod — that Priests and Kings, 
Custom, domestic sway, ay, all that brings 
Man's free-born soul beneath the oppressor's heel. 
Are his strong ministers, and tliat the stings 
Of death will make the wise his vengeance feel, 

Though truth and virtue arm their hearts with ten- 
fold steel. 

VIII. 
" And it is said, this Power will punish wrong ; 
Yes, add despair to crime, and pain to pain ! 
And deepest hell, and deathless snakes among. 
Will bind the wretch on whom is fix'd a stain, 
Which, like a plague, a burthen, and a bane. 
Clung to him while he lived ; — for love and hate. 
Virtue and vice, they say, are difference vain — 
The will of strength is right — this human state 

Tyrants, that they may rule, with lies thus desolate. 

IX. 

" Alas, what strength ? opinion is more frail 
Than yon dim cloud now fading on the moon 
Even while we gaze, though it awhile avail 
To hide the orb of truth — and every throne 
Of Earth or Heaven, though shadows rest thereon, 
One shape of many names : — for this ye plow 
The barren waves of ocean, hence each one 
Is slave or tyrant ; all betray and bow, 
Command, or kill, or fear, or wreak, or suffer woe. 



" Its names are each a sign which maketh holy 
All power — ay, the ghost, the dream, the shade, 
Of power — lust, falsehood, hate, and pride, and 

folly; 

The pattern whence all fraud and wrong is made, 
A law to which mankind has been betray 'd ; 
And human love is as the name well known 
Of a dear mother, whom the murderer laid 
In bloody grave, and into darkness thrown, 
(jather'd her wilder'd babes around him as his own 

XL 

" O love ! who to the hearts of wandering men 

Art as the calm to Ocean's weary waves ! 

Justice, or truth, or joy ! thou only can 

From slavery and religion's labyrinth caves 

Guide us, as one clear star the seaman saves. 

To give to all an equal share of good. 

To track the steps of freedom though through 

graves 
She pass, to suffer all in patient mood. 
To weep for crime, though stain'd with thy friend's 

dearest blood. 



XII. 

" To feel the peace of self contentment's lot, 
To own all sympathies, and outrage none, 
And in the inmost powers of sense and thought, 
Until hfe's sunny day is quite gone down, 
To sit and smile with Joy, or, not alone. 
To kiss salt tears from the worn cheek of Woe ; 
To live, as if to love and live were one, — 
This is not faith or law, nor those who bow 
To thrones on Heaven or Earth, such destiny may 
know. 

XIII. 

" But children near their parents tremble now, 
Because they must obey — one rules another, 
And as one Power rules both high and low, 
So man is made the captive of his brother. 
And Hate is throned on high with Fear her mother, 
Above the Highest — and those fountain-cells. 
Whence love yet flow'd when faith had choked all 

other, 
Are darken'd — Woman as the bond-slave, dwells 
Of man, a slave ; and life is poison'd in its wells. 

XIV. 

" Man seeks for gold in mines, that he may weave 

A lasting chain for his own slavery ; 

In fear and restless care that he may live 

He toils for others, who must ever be 

The joyless thralls of like captivity ; 

He murders, for his chiefs delight in ruin ; 

He builds the altar, that its idol's fee 

May be his very blood ; he is pursuing 

O, blind and wilUng wretch ! his own obscure undo- 
ing. 

XV. 
" Woman ! — she is his slave, she has become 
A thing I weep to speak — the child of scorn, 
The outcast of a desolated home. 
Falsehood, and fear, and toil, like waves have worn 
Channels upon her cheeks, which smiles adorn. 
As calm decks the false Ocean : — well ye know 
What Woman is, for none of Woman born 
Can choose but drain the bitter dregs of woe. 

Which ever from the oppress'd to the oppressors flow. 

XVI. 
" This need not be ; ye might arise, and Avill 
That gold should lose its power, and thrones their 

glory ; 
That love, which none may bind, be free to fill 
The world, like light ; and evil faith, grown hoary 
With crime, be quench'd and die. — Yon promon- 
tory 
Even now eclipses the descending moon ! — 
Dungeons and palaces are transitory — 
High temples fade like vapor — Man alone 
Remains, whose will has power when all beside is 
gone. 

XVII. 
" Let all be free and equal ! — from your hearts 
I feel an echo ; through my inmost frame 
Like sweetest sound, seeking its mate, it darts — 
Whence come ye, friends ? alas, I cannot name 
All that I read of sorrow, toil, and shame. 
On your worn faces ; as in legends old 
Which make immortal the disastrous fame 
Of conquerors and impostors false and bold, 
The discord of your hearts, I in your looks behold. 
283 



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XVIII. 
" Whence come ye, friends ? from pouring human 

blood 
Forth on the earth ? or bring ye steel and gold, 
That Kings may dupe and slay the multitude ? 
Or from the famish'd poor, pale, weak, and cold. 
Bear ye the earnings of their toil ? unfold ! 
Speak ! are your hands in slaughter's sanguine hue 
Stain'd freshly ? have your hearts in guile grown 

old? 
Know yourselves thus ! ye shall be pure as dew, 
And I will be a friend and sister unto you. 

XIX. 

" Disguise it not — we have one human heart — 
All mortal thoughts confess a common home : 
Blush not for what may to thyself impart 
Stains of inevitable crime : the doom 
Is this, which has, or may, or must become 
Thine, and all human-kind's. Ye are the spoil 
Which Time thus marks for the devouring tomb. 
Thou and thy thoughts, and they, and all the toil 
Wherewith ye twine the rings of life's perpetual coil. 

XX. 

Disguise it not — ye blush for what ye hate, 
And Enmity is sister unto Shame ; 
Look on your mind — it is the book of fate — 
Ah ! it is dark with many a blazon'd name 
Of misery — all are mirrors of the same ; 
But the dark fiend who with his iron pen 
Dipp'd in scorn's fiery poison, makes his fame 
Enduring there, would o'er the heads of men 

Pass harmless, if they scorn'd to make their hearts 
his den. 

XXI. 
" Yes, it is Hate, that shapeless fiendly thing 
Of many names, all evil, some divine. 
Whom self-contempt arms with a mortal sting ; 
Which, when the heart its snaky folds entwine, 
Is wasted quite, and when it doth repine 
To gorge such bitter prey, on all beside 
It turns with ninefold rage, as with its twine 
When Amphisbaena some fair bird has tied. 

Soon o'er the putrid mass he threats on every side. 

XXII. 

" Reproach not thine own soul, but know thyself. 
Nor hate another's crime, nor lothe thine own. 
It is the dark idolatry of self, 
Which, when our thoughts and actions once are 

gone. 
Demands that man should weep, and bleed, and 

groan ; 
O vacant expiation ! be at rest. — 
The past is Death's, the future is thine own ; 
And love and joy can make the foulest breast 
A paradise of flowers, where Peace might build her 

nest. 

XXIII. 
"'Speak thou! whence come ye?' — A Youth 

made reply, 
* Wearily, wearily o'er the boundless deep 
We sail ; — thou readest well the misery 
Told in these faded eyes, but much doth sleep 
Within, which there the poor heart loves to keep. 
Or dare not write on the dishonor'd brow ; 
Even from our childhood have we learn'd to steep 
The bread of slavery in the tears of woe, 
^nd never dream'd of hope or refuge until now. 



XXIV. 
" ' Yes — I must speak — my secret should have per- 

ish'd 
Even with the heart it wasted, as a brand 
Fades in the dying flame whose life it cherish'd. 
But that no human bosom can withstand 
Thee, wondrous Lady, and the mild command 
Of thy keen eyes : — yes, we are wretched slaves, 
WTio from their wonted loves and native land 
Are reft, and bear o'er the dividing waves 
The unregarded prey of calm and happy graves. 

XXV. 

" ' We drag afar from pastoral vales the fairest, 
Among the daughters of those mountains lone, 
We drag them there, where all things best and 

rarest 
Are stain'd and trampled : — years have come and 

gone 
Since, like the ship which bears me, I have known 
No thought ; — but now the eyes of one dear Maid 
On mine with light of mutual love have shone— 
She is my life, — I am ^but as the shade 
Of her, — a smoke sent up from ashes, soon to fade. 

XXVI. 

" ♦ For she must perish in the tyrant's hall — 
Alas, alas ! ' — He ceased, and by the sail 
Sate cowering — but his sobs were heard by all, 
And still before the ocean and the gale 
The ship fled fast till the stars 'gan to fail. 
And round me gather'd with mute countenance. 
The Seamen gazed, the Pilot, worn and pale 
With toil, the Captain with gray locks, whose glance 
Met mine in restless awe — they stood as in a trance. 

XXVII. 

" Recede not ! pause not now ! thou art grown old. 
But Hope will make thee young, for Hope and 

Youth 
Are children of one mother, even Love — behold ! 
The eternal stars gaze on us ! — is the truth 
Within your soul ? care for your own, or ruth 
For other's sufferings ? do ye thirst to bear 
A heart which not the serpent custom's tooth 
May violate ? — be free ! and even here. 
Swear to be firm till death ! they cried, ' we swear ! 
we swear ! ' 

XXVIII. 
" The very darkness shook, as with a blast 
Of subterranean thunder at the cry ; 
The hollow shore its thousand echoes cast 
Into the night, as if the sea, and sky. 
And earth, rejoiced with new-born Liberty, 
For in that name they swore ! Bolts were undrawn. 
And on the deck, with unaccustom'd eye, 
The captives gazing stood, and every one 
Shrank as the inconstant torch upon her countenance 
shone. 

XXIX. 
" They were earth's purest children, young and fair, 
With eyes the shrines of unawaken'd thought. 
And brows as bright as spring or morning, ere 
Dark time had there its evil legend wrought 
In characters of cloud which wither not. — 
The change was like a dream to them ; but soon 
They knew the glory of their alter'd lot. 
In the bright wisdom of youth's breathless noon. 
Sweet talk, and smiles, and sighs, all bosoms did 
attune. 

284 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



37 



XXX. 

" But one was mute, her cheeks and lips most fair 
Changing their hue like lilies newly blown, 
I Beneath a bright acacia's shadowy hair, 
Waved by the wind amid the sunny noon, 
Show'd that her soul was quivering ; and full soon 
That youth arose, and breathlessly did look 
On her and me, as for some speechless boon : 
I smiled, and both their hands in mine I took. 
And felt a soft delight from what their spirits shook. 



CANTO IX. 



I. 

« That night we anchor'd in a woody bay, 
And sleep no more around us dared to hover 
Than, when all doubt and fear has past away, 
It shades the couch of some unresting lover. 
Whose heart is now at rest : thus night past over 
In mutual joy : — around, a forest grew 
Of poplars and dark oaks, whose shade did cover 
The waning stars prankt in the waters blue, 
And trembled in the vidnd which from the morning flew. 

II. 

" The joyous mariners, and each free maiden, 
Now brought from the deep forest many a bough. 
With woodland spoil most innocently laden ; 
Soon wreaths of budding foliage seem'd to flow 
Over the mast and sails, the stern and prow 
Were canopied with blooming boughs, — the while 
On the slant sun's path o'er the waves we go 
Rejoicing, like the dwellers of an isle 
Doom'd to pursue those waves that cannot cease to 
smile. 

III. 

" The many ships spotting the dark-blue deep 
With snowy sails, fled fast as ours came nigh, 
In fear and wonder ; and on every steep 
Thousands did gaze, they heard the startling cry, 
Like earth's own voice lifted unconquerably 
To all her children, the unbounded mirth, 
The glorious joy of thy name — Liberty ! 
They heard ! — As o'er the mountains of the earth 
From peak to peak leap on the beams of morning's birth : 



IV. 

" So from that cry over the boundless hills, 
Sudden was caught one universal sound, 
Like a volcano's voice, whose thunder fills 
Remotest slues, — such glorious madness found 
A path through human hearts with stream which 

drown'd 
Its struggling fears and cares, dark custom's brood. 
They knew not whence it came, but felt around 
A wide contagion pour'd — they call'd aloud 
On Liberty— that name lived on the sunny flood. 



" We reach'd the port — alas ! from many spirits 
The wisdom which had waked that cry, was fled, 
Like the brief glory which dark Heaven inherits 
From the false dawn, which fades ere it is spread, 
Upon the night's devouring darkness shed : 
Yet soon bright day will burst — even like a chasm 
Of fixe, to burn the shrouds outworn and dead, 
Which wrap the world ; a wide enthusiasm, 
To cleanse the fever'd world as with an earthquake's 



VI 

" I walk'd through the great City then, but free 
From shame or fear ; those toil-worn Mariners 
And happy Maidens did encompass me ; 
And like a subterranean wind that stirs 
Some forest among caves, the hopes and fears 
From every human soul, a murmur strange 
Made as I past ; and many wept, with tears 
Of joy and awe, and winged thoughts did range, 

And haltextinguish'd words, which prophesied of 
change. 

VIL 
" For, with strong speech I tore the veil that hid 
Nature, and Truth, and Liberty, and Love, — 
As one who from some mountain's pyramid. 
Points to the unrisen sun ! — the shades approve 
His truth, and flee from every stream and grove. 
Thus, gentle thoughts did many a bosom fill, — 
Wisdom, the mail of tried affections wove 
For many a heart, and tameless scorn of ill. 

Thrice steep'd in molten steel the unconquerable will. 

VIIL 

" Some said I was a maniac wild and lost ; 
Some, that I scarce had risen from the grave 
The Prophet's virgin bride, a heavenly ghost : — 
Some said, I was a fiend from ray weird cave, 
Who had stolen human shape, and o'er the wave, 
The forest, and the mountain came ; — some said 
I was the child of God, sent down to save 
Women from bonds and death, and on my head 
The burthen of their sins would frightfully be laid. 

IX. 

" But soon my human words found sympathy 
In human hearts : the purest and the best. 
As friend with friend, made common cause with me, 
And they were few, but resolute ; — the rest. 
Ere yet success the enterprise had blest, 
Leagued with me in their hearts ; — their meals, 

their slumber, 
Their hourly occupations were possest 
By hopes which I had arm'd to overnumber. 
Those hosts of meaner cares, which life's strong wings 

encumber. 

X. 

" But chiefly women, whom my voice did waken 
From their cold, careless, willing slavery. 
Sought me: one truth their dreary prison has 

shaken, — 
They look'd around, and lo ! they became free ! 
Their many tyrants sitting desolately 
In slave-deserted halls, could none restrain ; 
For wrath's red fire had wither'd in the eye, 
Whose lightning once was death, — nor fear, nor gain 
Could tempt one captive now to lock another's chain. 
285 



ss 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XI. 

" Those who were sent to bind me, wept, and felt 
Their minds outsoar the bonds which clasp'd them 

round, 
Even as a waxen shape may waste and melt 
In the white furnace ; and a vision'd swound, 
A pause of hope and awe the City bound. 
Which, like the silence of a tempest's birth, 
When in its awful shadow it has wound 
The sun, the wind, the ocean, and the earth, 
Hung terrible, ere yet the lightnings have leapt forth. 

XII. 
" Like clouds inwoven in the silent sky. 
By winds from distant regions meeting there, 
In the high name of truth and liberty 
Around the City millions gather'd were. 
By hopes which sprang from many a hidden lair ; 
Words, which the lore of truth in hues of grace 
Array'd, thine own wild songs which in the air 
Like homeless odors floated, and the name 

Of thee, and many a tongue which thou hadst dipp'd 
in flame. 

XIII. 

" The Tyrant knew his power was gone, but Fear, 
The nurse of Vengeance, bade him wait the event — 
That perfidy and custom, gold and prayer. 
And whatsoe'er, when force is impotent, 
To fraud the sceptre of the world has lent, 
Might, as he judged, confirm his failing sway. 
Therefore throughout the streets the Priests he sent 
To curse the rebels. — To their gods did they 

For Earthquake, Plague, and Want, kneel in the 
public way. 

XIV. 
" And grave and hoary men were bribed to tell 
From seats where law is made the slave of wrong. 
How glorious Athens in her splendor fell, 
Because her sons were free, — and that among 
Mankind, the many to the few belong, 
By Heaven, and Nature, and Necessity. 
They said, that age was truth, and that the young 
Marr'd with wild hopes the peace of slavery. 

With which old times and men had quell'd the vain 
and free. 

XV. 
"' And with the falsehood of their poisonous lips 
They breathed on the enduring memory 
Of sages and of bards a brief eclipse ; 
There was one teacher, who, necessity 
Had arm'd, with strength and wrong against man- 
kind, 
His slave and his avenger aye to be ; 
That we were weak and sinful, frail and blind. 
And that the will of one was peace, and we 

Should seek for naught on earth but toil and misery. 

XVI. 

" * For thus we might avoid the hell hereafter.' 
So spake the hypocrites, who cursed and lied ; 
Alas, their sway was past, and tears and laughter 
Clung to their hoary hair, withering the pride 
Which in their hollow hearts dared still abide ; 
And yet obscener slaves with smoother brow, 
And sneers on their strait lips, thin, blue and 

wide. 
Said, that the rule of men was over now. 
And hence, the subject world to woman's will must 

bow J 



XVII. 

" And gold was scatter'd through the streets, and 

wine 
Flow'd at a hundred feasts within the wall. 
In vain ! the steady towers in Heaven did shine 
As they were wont, nor at the priestly call. 
Left Plague her banquet in the ^thiop's hall, 
Nor famine from the rich man's portal came, 
Where at her ease she ever preys on all 
Who throng to kneel for food : nor fear nor shame. 
Nor faith, nor discord, dimm'd hope's newly-kindled 

flame. 

xvin. 

" For gold was as a god whose faith began 
To fade, so that its worshippers were few, 
And Faith itself, which in the heart of man 
Gives shape, voice, name, to spectral Terror, knew 
Its downfall, as the altars lonelier grew. 
Till the Priests stood alone within the fane ; 
The shafts of falsehood unpolluting flew, 
And the cold sneers of calumny were vain 
The union of the free with discord's brand to stain. 

XIX. 

" The rest thou knowest — Lo ! we two are here— 
We have survived a ruin wide and deep — 
Strange thoughts are mine. — I cannot grieve or fear. 
Sitting with thee upon this lonely steep 
I smile, though human love should make me weep. 
We have survived a joy that knows no sorrow, 
And I do feel a mighty calmness creep 
Over my heart, which can no longer borrow 

Its hues from chance or change, dark children of 
to-morrow. 

XX. 
" We know not what will come — yet Laon, dearest, 
Cythna shall be the prophetess of love. 
Her lips shall rob thee of the grace thou wearest. 
To hide thy heart, and clothe the shapes which rove 
Within the homeless future's wintry grove : 
For I now, sitting thus beside thee, seem 
Even with thy breath and blood to live and move, 
And violence and wrong are as a dream 

Which rolls from stedfast truth an unreturning stream. 

XXI. 

" The blasts of Autumn drive the winged seeds 
Over the earth, — next come the snows, and rain. 
And frost, and storms, which dreary Winter leads 
Out of his Scythian cave, a savage train. 
Behold ! Spring sweeps over the world again. 
Shedding soft dews from her ethereal wings ; 
Flowers on the mountains, fruits over the plain. 
And music on the waves and woods she flings. 
And love on all that lives, and calm on lifeless things 



XXII. 

"O Spring ! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness 
Wind- winged emblem ! brightest, best and fairest ! 
Whence comest thou, when, with dark Winter's 



The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest ? 
Sister of joy ! thou art the child who wearest 
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet ; 
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle 
feet. 
Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet 
286 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



3^ 



XXIII. 

" Virtue, and Hope, and Love, like light and Heaven 
Surround the world. — We are their chosen slaves. 
Has *iot the whirlwind of our spirit driven 
Truth's deathless germs to thought's remotest caves ? 
Lo, Winter comes ! — the grief of many graves, 
The frost of death, the tempest of the sword, 
The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine waves 
Stagnate like ice at Faith, the enchanter's word, 
And bind all human hearts in its repose abhorr'd. 

XXIV. 

« The seeds are sleeping in the soil : meanwhile 
The tyrant peoples dungeons with his prey, 
Pale victims on the guarded scaffold smile 
Because they cannot speak ; and, day by day, 
The moon of wasting Science wanes away 
Among her stars, and in that darkness vast 
The sons of earth to their foul idols pray, 
And gray Priests triumph, and like blight or blast 
A shade of selfish care o'er human looks is cast. 

XXV. 

" This is the winter of the world ; — and here 
We die, even as the winds of Autumn fade, 
Expiring in the frore and foggy air. — 
Behold! Spring comes, though we must pass, who 

made 
The promise of its birth, — even as the shade 
Which from our death, as from a mountain, flings 
The future, a broad sunrise ; thus array'd 
As with the plumes of overshadowing wings, 
From its dark gulf of chains, Earth like an eagle springs. 

XXVI. 

" O dearest love ! we shall be dead and cold 
Before this morn may on the world arise ; 
Wouldst thou the glory of its dawn behold ? 
Alas ! gaze not on me, but turn thine eyes 
On thine own heart — it is a paradise 
Which everlasting Spring has made its own, 
And while drear Winter fills the naked skies, 
Sweet streams of sunny thought, and flowers fresh 
blown, 
Are there, and weave their sounds and odors into one. 

XXVII. 
" In their own hearts the earnest of the hope 
Which made them great, the good vdll ever find ; 
And though some envious shade may interlope 
1 Between the eflfect and it, one comes behind, 
Who aye the future to the past will bind — 
Necessity, whose sightless strength for ever 
Evil with evil, good with good must wind 
In bands of union, which no power may sever : 
ITiey must bring forth their kind, and be divided never ! 

XXVIII. 

" The good and mighty of departed ages 
Are in their graves, the innocent and free. 
Heroes, and Poets, and prevailing Sages, 
Who leave the vesture of their majesty 
To adorn and clothe this naked world ; — and we 
Are like to them — such perish, but they leave 
All hope, or love, or truth, or liberty, 
Whose forms their mighty spirits could conceive 
To be a rule and law to ages that survive. 



XXIX. 

" So be the turf heap'd over our remains 
Even in our happy youth, and that strange lot, 
Whate'er it be, when in these mingling veins 
The blood is still, be ours ; let sense and thought 
Pass from our being, or be number'd not 
Among the things that are ; let those who come 
Behind, for whom our stedfast will has brought 
A calm inheritance, a glorious doom. 
Insult, with careless tread, our undivided tomb. 

XXX. 

" Our many thoughts and deeds, our life and lov^ 
Our happiness, and all that we have been. 
Immortally must live, and burn and move, 
When we shall be no more ; — the world has seen 
A type of peace ; and as some most serene 
And lovely spot to a poor maniac's eye. 
After long years, some sweet and moving scene 
Of youthful hope returning suddenly. 
Quells his long madness — thus man shall remember 
thee. 

XXXI. 

" And Calunmy meanwhile shall feed on us, 
As worms devour the dead, and near the throne 
And at the altar, most accepted thus 
Shall sneers and curses be ;— what we have done 
None shall dare vouch, though it be truly known; 
That record shall remain, when they must pass 
Who built their pride on its oblivion ; 
And fame, in human hope which sculptured was. 
Survive the perish'd scrolls of unenduring brass. 

XXXII. 
" The while we two, beloved, must depart, 
And Sense and Reason, those enchanters fair, 
Whose wand of power is hope, would bid the heart 
That gazed beyond the wormy grave despair : 
These eyes, these lips, this blood, seem darkly there 
To fade in hideous ruin; no calm sleep, 
Peopling with golden dreams the stagnant air, 
Seems our obscure and rotting eyes to steep 
In joy; — but senseless death — a ruin dark and deep! 

xxxin. 

" These are blind fancies — reason cannot know 
What sense can neither feel, nor thought conceive; 
There is delusion in the world — and woe. 
And fear, and pain — we know not whence we live, 
Or why, or how, or what mute Power may give 
Their being to each plant, and star, and beast. 
Or even these thoughts : — Come near me ! I do weave 
A chain I cannot break — I am possest 
With thoughts too swift and strong for one lone 
human breast. 

xxxiv. 

" Yes, yes — thy kiss is sweet, thy lips are warm — 
O ! willingly beloved, would these eyes, 
Might they no more drink being from thy form, 
Even as to sleep whence we again arise. 
Close their faint orbs in death : I fear nor prize 
Aught that can now betide, unshared by thee — 
Yes, Love when wisdom fails makes Cythna wise . 
Darkness and death, if death be true, must be 
Dearer than life and hope, if unenjoy'd with thee. 
287 



40 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXXV. 

"Alas, our thoughts flow on with stream, whose 

waters 
Return not to their fountain — Earth and Heaven, 
The Ocean and the Sim, the clouds their daughters, 
Winter, and Spring, and Morn, and Noon, and Even, 
All that we are or laiow, is darkly driven 
Towards one gulf — Lo! what a change is come 
Since I first spake — but time shall be forgiven, 
Though it change all but thee!" — She ceased: 
night's gloom 
Meanwhile had fallen on earth from the sky's sun- 
less dome. 

XXXVI. 

Though she had ceased, her countenance uplifted 
To Heaven, still spake, with solemn glory bright ; 
Her dark deep eyes, her lips, whose motions gifted 
The air they breathed with love, her locks undight; 
"Fair star of life and love!" I cried, "my soul's 

delight ! 
Why lookest thou on the crystalline skies ? 
O, that my spirit were yon Heaven of night, 
Which gazes on thee with its thousand eyes ! " 
She tum'dto me and smiled — that smile was Paradise 



CANTO X. 



I. 

Was there a human spirit in the steed, 
That thus with his proud voice, ere night was gone. 
He broke our linked rest? or do indeed 
All hving things a common nature own, 
And thought erect a imiversal throne, 
Where many shapes one tribute ever bear ? 
And Earth, their mutual mother, does she groan 
To see her sons contend ? and makes she bare 
Her breast, that all in peace its drainless stores may 
share? 

n. 

I have heard friendly sounds from many a tongue, 
Which was not human — the lone Nightingale 
Has answer'd me with her most soothing song. 
Out of her ivy bower, when I sate pale 
With grief, and sigh'd beneath ; from many a dale 
The Antelopes who flock'd for food have spoken 
With happy sounds, and motions, that avail 
Like man's own speech ; and such was now the token 
Of waning night, whose calm by that proud neigh 
was broken. 

m. 

Each night, that mighty steed bore me abroad. 
And I return'd with food to our retreat, 
And dark intelligence ,• the blood which flow'd 
Over the fields, had stain'd the courser's feet ; — 
Soon the dust drinks that bitter dew, — then meet 
The vulture, and the wild-dog, and the snake. 
The wolf, and the hyena gray, and eat 
The dead in horrid truce : their throngs did make 
Behind the steed, a chasm like waves in a ship's wake. 



IV- 

For, from the utmost realms of earth, came pouring 
The banded slaves whom every despot sent 
At that throned traitor's summons ; like the roaring 
Of fire, whose floods the wild deer circumvent 
In the scorch'd pastures of the South ; so bent 
The armies of the leagued kings around 
Their files of steel and flame ; — the continent 
Trembled, as with a zone of ruin bound, 
Beneath their feet, the sea shook with their Navies* 
sound. 

V. 

From every nation of the earth they came, 
The multitude of moving heartless things. 
Whom slaves call men : obediently they came, 
Like sheep whom from the fold the shepherd brings 
To the stall, red with blood; their many kings 
Led them, thus erring, from their native home; 
Tartar and Frank, and millions whom the wings 
Of Indian breezes lull, and many a band 
The Arctic Anarch sent, and Idumea's sand, 

VL 

Fertile in prodigies and lies ; — so there 
Strange natures made a brotherhood of ill. 
The desert savage ceased to grasp in fear 
His Asian shield and bow, when, at the will 
Of Europe's subtler son, the bolt would kill 
Some shepherd sitting on a rock secure ; 
But smiles of wondering joy his face would fill. 
And savage sympathy : those slaves impure. 
Each one the other thus from ill to ill did lure. 

VII. 

For traitorously did that foul Tyrant robe 
His countenance in lies, — even at the hour 
When he was snatch'd from death, then o'er the 

globe, 
With secret signs from many a mountain tower. 
With smoke by day, and fire by night, the power 
Of kings and priests, those dark conspirators 
He call'd : — they knew his cause their own, and 

swore 
Like wolves and serpents, to their mutual wars 
Strange truce, with many a rite which Earth and 

Heaven abhors. 

VIII. 

Myriads had come — iSSllions were on their way ; 
The Tyrant past, surrounded by the steel 
Of hired assassins, through the public way, 
Choked with his country's dead : — his footsteps reel 
On the fresh blood — he smiles, " Ay, now I feel 
I am a King in truth ! " he said, and took 
His royal seat, and bade the torturing wheel 
Be brought, and fire, and pincers, and the hook, 
And scorpions ; that his soul on its revenge might look. 

IX. 

" But first, go slay the rebels — why return 
The victor bands?" he said, "millions yet live. 
Of whom the weakest with one word might turn 
The scales of victory yet ; — let none survive 
But those within the walls — each fifth shall give 
The expiation for his brethren here. — 
Go forth, and waste and kill ! " — " O king, forgive 
My speech," a soldier answer'd — " but we fear 
The spirits of the night, and morn is drawing near, 
288 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



41 



" For we were slaying still without remorse, 
And now that dreadful chief beneath my hand 
Defenceless lay, when, on a hell-black horse, 
An Angel bright as day, waving a brand 
Which flash'd among the stars, past." — " Dost thou 

stand 
Parleying with me, thou wretch ?" the king replied ; 
" Slaves, bind him to the wheel ; and of this band. 
Whoso will drag that woman to his side 

That scared him thus, may burn his dearest foe be- 
side ; 

XI. 
" And gold and glory shall be his. — Go forth ! " 
They rush'd into the plain — Loud was the roar 
Of their career : the horsemen shook the earth ; 
The wheel'd artillery's speed the pavement tore ; 
The infantry, file after file, did pour 
Their clouds on the utmost hills. Five days they 

slew 
Among the wasted fields ; the sixth saw gore 
Stream through the city ; on the seventh, the dew 

Of slaughter became stiif; and there was peace anew: 

XII. 

Peace in the desert fields and villages. 
Between the glutted beasts and mangled dead ! 
Peace in the silent streets ! save when the cries 
Of victims to their fiery judgment led. 
Made pale their voiceless lips who seem'd to dread 
Even in their dearest kindred, lest some tongue 
Be faithless to the fear yet unbetray'd ; 
Peace in the Tyrant's palace, where the throng 
Waste the triumphal hours in festival and song ! 

XIII. 
Day after day the burning Sun roll'd on 
Over the death-polluted land — it came 
Out of the east like fire, and fiercely shone 
A lamp of Autumn, ripening with its flame 
The few lone ears of corn ; — the sky became 
Stagnate with heat, so that each cloud and blast 
Languish'd and died, — the thirsting air did claim 
All moisture, and a rotting vapor past 
From the unburied dead, invisible and fast 

XIV. 
First Want, then Plague came on the beasts ; their 

food 
Fail'd, and they drew the breath of its decay. 
Millions on millions, whom the scent of blood 
Had lured, or who, from regions far away, 
Had track'd the hosts in festival array. 
From their dark deserts ; gaunt and wasting now, 
Stalk'd like fell shades among their perish'd prey : 
In their green eyes a strange disease did glow. 
They sank in hideous spasm, or pains severe and slow 

XV. 
The fish were poison'd in the streams ; the birds 
In the green woods perish'd ; the insect race 
Was wither'd up ; the scatter'd flocks and herds 
Who had survived the wild beasts' hungry chase 
Died moaning, each upon the other's face 
In helpless agony gazing ; round the City 
All night, the lean hyenas their sad case 
Like starving infants wail'd ; a woful ditty ! 
And many a mother wept, pierced with unnatural 
pity. 

2M 



XVI. 

Amid the aerial minarets on high. 
The Ethiopian vultures fluttering fell 
From their long hue of brethren in the sky. 
Startling the concourse of mankind. — Too well 
These signs the coming mischief did foretell : — 
Strange panic first, a deep and sickening dread 
Within each heart, like ice, did sink and swell, 
A voiceless thought of evil, which did spread 
With the quick glance of eyes, hke withering light- 
nings shed. 

XVIL 
Day after day, when the year wanes, the frosts 
Strip its green crown of leaves, till all is bare ; 
So on those strange and congregated hosts 
Came Famine, a swift shadow, and the air 
Groan'd with the burthen of a new despair ; 
Famine, than whom Misrule no deadlier daughter 
Feeds from her thousand breasts, though sleeping 

there 
With lidless eyes, lie Faith, and Plague, and Slaugh- 
ter, 
A ghastly brood ; conceived of Lethe's sullen water. 
XVIII. 
There was no food, the corn was trampled down, 
The flocks and herds had perish'd ; on the shore 
The dead and putrid fish were ever thrown : 
The deeps were foodless, and the winds no more 
Creak'd with the weight of birds, but as before 
Those winged things spremg forth, were void of 

shade ; 
The vines and orchards, Autumn's golden store. 
Were burn'd ; — so that the meanest food was 
weigh'd 
With gold, and Avarice died before the god it made. 
XIX. 
There was no com — in the wide market-place 
All lotheliest things, even human flesh, was sold ; 
They weigh'd it in small scales — and many a face 
Was fix'd in eager horror then : his gold 
The miser brought, the tender maid, grown bold 
Through hunger, bared her scorned charms in vain • 
The mother brought her eldest born, controll'd 
By instinct blind as love, but tum'd again 
And bade her infant suck, and died in silent pain. 
XX. 
Then fell blue Plague upon the race of man. 
" O, for the sheathed steel, so late which gave 
Oblivion to the dead, when the streets ran 
With brother's blood I O, that the earthquake's 

grave 
Would gape, or Ocean lift its stifling wave ! " 
Vain cries — throughout the streets, thousands pur- 
sued 
Each by his fiery torture howl and rave. 
Or sit in frenzy's unimagined mood. 
Upon fresh heaps of dead ; a ghastly multitude. 
XXI. 
It was not hunger now, but thirst. Each well 
Was choked with rotting corpses, and became 
A caldron of green mist made visible 
At sunrise. Thither still the myriads came, 
Seeking to quench the agony of the flame 
Which raged like poison through their bursting 

veins ; 
Naked they were from torture, without shame, 
Spotted with nameless scars and lurid blains. 
Childhood, and youth, and age, writhing in savage 
pains. 

389 



42 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXII. 
It was not thirst, but madness ! many saw 
Their own lean image everywhere, it went 
A ghastUer self beside them, till the awe 
Of that dread sight to self-destruction sent 
Those shrieking victims ; some, ere life was spent. 
Sought, with a horrid sympathy, to shed 
Contagion on the sound ; and others rent 
Their matted hair, and cried aloud, " We tread 
On fire ! the avenging Power his hell on earth has 
spread." 

XXIII. 

Sometimes the living by the dead were hid. 
Near the great fountain in the public square, 
Where corpses made a crumbling pyramid 
Under the sun, was heard one stifled prayer 
For life, in the hot silence of the air ; 
And strange 'twas, amid that hideous heap to see 
Some shrouded in their long and golden hair, 
As if not dead, but slumbering quietly, 
Like forms which sculptors carve, then love to agony. 

XXIV. 

Famine had spared the palace of the king : — 

He rioted in festival the while, 

He and his guards and priests ; but Plague did 

fling 
One shadow upon all. Famine can smile 
On him who brings it food, and pass, with guile 
Of thankful falsehood, like a courtier gray. 
The house-dog of the throne ; but many a mile 
Comes Plague, a winged wolf, who lothes alway 
The garbage and the scum that strangers make her 

prey. 

XXV. 
So, near the throne, amid the gorgeous feast, 
Sheathed in resplendent arras, or loosely dight 
To luxury, ere the mockery yet had ceased 
That linger'd on his lips, the warrior's might 
Was loosen'd, and a new and ghastlier night 
In dreams of frenzy lapp'd his eyes ; he fell 
Headlong, or with stiflT eyeballs sate upright 
Among the guests, or raving mad, did tell 
Strange truths ; a dying seer of dark oppression's hell. 

XXVI. 

The Princes and the Priests were pale with terror ; 
That monstrous faith wherewith they ruled man- 
kind, 
Fell, like a shaft loosed by the bowman's error, 
On their own hearts ,• they sought and they could 

find, 
No refiige — 'twas the blind who led the blind ! 
So, through the desolate streets to the high fane, 
The many-tongued and endless armies wind 
In sad procession : each among the train 
To his own Idol lifts his supplications vain. 

XXVII. 
" O God ! " they cried, " we know our secret pride 
Has scorn'd thee, and thy worship, and thy name ; 
Secure in human power we have defied 
Thy fearful might ; we bend in fear and shame 
Before thy presence ; with the dust we claim 
Kindred ; be merciful, O King of Heaven ! 
Most justly have we suflfer'd for thy fame 
Made dim, but be at length- our sins forgiven. 
Ere to despair and death thy worshippers be driven. 



xxvni. 

" O King of Glory ! thou alone hast power ! 
Who can resist thy will ? who can restrain 
Thy wrath, when on the guilty thou dost shower 
The shafts of thy revenge, a blistering rain ? 
Greatest and best, be merciful again ! 
Have we not stabb'd thine enemies, and made 
The Earth an altar, and the Heavens a fane, 
Where thou wert worshipp'd with their blood, and 

laid 
Those hearts in dust which would thy searchless 

works have weigh'd ? 

XXIX. 

" Well didst thou loosen on this impious City 
Thine angels of revenge : recall them now ; 
Thy worshippers, abased, here kneel for pity, 
And bind their souls by an immortal vow : 
We swear by thee ! and to our oath do thou 
Give sanction, from thine hell of fiends and flame, 
That we will kill with fire and torments slow. 
The last of those who mock'd thy holy name, 

And scorn'd the sacred laws thy prophets did pro- 
claim." 

XXX. 
Thus they with trembling limbs and pallid lips 
Worshipp'd their own hearts' image, dim and vast. 
Scared by the shade wherewith they would eclipse 
The light of other minds ; — troubled they past 
From the great Temple ; — fiercely still and fast 
The arrows of the plague among them fell, 
And they on one another gazed aghast. 
And through the hosts contention wild befell, 

As each of his own god the wondrous works did tell. 

XXXI. 

And Oromaze, Joshua, and Mahomet, 
Moses, and Buddh, Zerdusht, and Brahm, and Foh, 
A tumult of strange names, which never met 
Before, as watch-words of a single woe. 
Arose ; each raging votary 'gan to throw 
Aloft his armed hands, and each did howl . 
" Our God alone is God ! " and slaughter now 
Would have gone forth, when from beneath a cowl 
A voice came forth, which pierced like ice through 
every soul. 

XXXII. 

'Twas an Iberian Priest from whom it came, 

A zealous man, who led the legion'd west 

With words which faith and pride had steep'd in 

flame, 
To quell the unbelievers ; a dire guest 
Even to his friends was he, for in his breast 
Did hate and guile lie watchful, intertwined, 
Twdn serpents in one deep and winding nest ; 
He lolhed all faith beside his own, and pined 
To wreak his fear of Heaven in vengeance on man- 
kind. 

XXXIII. 
But more he lothed and hated the clear light 
Of wisdom and free thought, and more did fear, 
Lest, kindled once, its beams might pierce the night, 
Even where his Idol stood ; for, far and near 
Did many a heart in Europe leap to hear 
That faith and tyranny were trampled down ; 
Many a pale victim, doom'd for truth to share 
The murderer's cell, or see, with helpless groan. 
The priests his children drag for slaves to serve their 
own. 

290 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



43 



XXXIV. 

He dared not kill the infidels with fire 
Or steel, in Europe : the slow agonies 
Of legal torture mock'd his keen desire : 
So he made truce with those who did despise 
The expiation and the sacrifice, 
That, though detested, Islam's kindred creed 
Might crush for him those deadlier enemies ; 
For fear of God did in his bosom breed 
A jealous hate of man, an unreposing need. 

XXXV. 

"Peace! Peace!" he cried, "when we are dead, 

the day 
Of judgment comes, and all shall surely know 
Whose God is God, each fearfully shall pay 
The errors of his faith in endless woe ! 
But there is sent a mortal vengeance now 
On earth, because an impious race had spurn'd 
Him whom we all adore, — a subtile foe, 
By whom for ye this dread reward was earn'd. 
And kingly thrones,which rest on faith, nigh overturn'd. 



XXXVI. 

"Think ye, because ye weep, and kneel, and pray, 
That God will lull the pestilence ? it rose 
Even from beneath his throne, where, many a day 
His mercy soothed it to a dark repose : 
It walks upon the earth to judge his foes. 
And what are thou and I, that he should deign 
To curb his ghastly minister, or close 
The gates of death, ere they receive the twain 
Who shook with mortal spells his undefended reign ! 

XXXVII. 
" Ay, there is famine in the gulf of hell. 
Its giant worms of fire for ever yawn, — 
Their lurid eyes are on us ! those who fell 
By the swift shaft c* pestilence ere dawn, 
Are in their jaws ! they hunger for the spawn 
Of Satan, their own brethren, who were sent 
To make our souls their spoil. See ! see ! they fawn 
Like dogs, and they will sleep with luxury spent, 
When those detested hearts their iron fangs have rent! 

XXXVIII. 

" Our God may then lull Pestilence to sleep : 
Pile high the pyre of expiation now ! 
A forest's spoil of boughs, and on the heap 
Pour venomous gums, which sullenly and slow, 
When touch'd by flame, shall burn, and melt, and 

flow, 
A stream of clinging fire, — and fix on high 
A net of iron, and spread forth below 
A couch of snakes, and scorpions, and the fry 
Of centipedes and worms, earth's hellish progeny ! 

XXXIX. 

" Let Laon and Laone on that pyre, 
Link'd tight with burning brass, perish! — then pray 
That, with this sacrifice, the withering ire 
Of Heaven may be appeased." He ceased, and they 
A space stood silent, as far, far away 
The echoes of his voice among them died ; 
And he knelt down upon the dust, alway 
Muttering the curses of his speechless pride. 
Whilst shame, and fear, and awe, the ai*mies did divide. 



XL. 

His voice was like a blast that burst the portal 
Of fabled hell ; and as he spake, each one 
Saw gape beneath the chasms of fire immortal. 
And Heaven above seem'd cloven, where, on a 

throne 
Girt round with storms and shadows, sate alone, 
Their King and Judge — fear kill'd in every breast 
All natural pity then, a fear unknown 
Before, and with an inward fire possest, 

They raged like homeless beasts whom burning 
woods invest. 

XLT. 
'T was morn — at noon the public crier went forth, 
Proclaiming through the living and the dead, 
" The Monarch saith, that this great Empire's worth 
Is set on Laon and Laone's head : 
He who but one yet living here can lead. 
Or who the life from both their hearts can wring, 
Shall be the kingdom's heir, a glorious meed ! 
But he who both alive can hither bring. 

The Princess shall espouse, and reign an equal King." 

XLII. 

Ere night the pyre was piled, the net of iron 
Was spread above, the fearful couch below, 
It overtopp'd the towers that did environ 
That spacious square ; for Fear is never slow 
To build the thrones of Hate, her mate and foe. 
So, she scourged forth the maniac multitude 
To rear this pyramid — tottering and slow. 
Plague-stricken, foodless, like lean herds pursued 
By gad-flies, they have piled the heath, and gums, 

and wood. 

XLHI. 
Night came, a starless and a moonless gloom. 
Until the dawn, those hosts of many a nation 
Stood round that pile, as near one lover's tomb 
Two gentle sisters mourn their desolation ; 
And in the silence of that expectation, 
Was heard on high the reptiles' hiss and crawl — 
It was so deep, save when the devastation 
Of the swift pest with fearful interval, 
Marking its paths with shrieks, among the crowd 

would fall. 

XLIV. 

Mom came, — among those sleepless multitudes. 
Madness, and Fear, and Plague, and Famine still 
Heap'd corpse on corpse, as in autumnal woods 
The frosts of many a wind with dead leaves fill 
Earth's cold and sullen brooks ; in silence, still 
The pale survivors stood; ere noon, the fear 
Of Hell became a panic, which did kill 
Like hunger or disease, with whispers drear. 
As "Hush! hark! Come they yet? Just Heaven.' 
thine hour is near ! " 

XLV. 

And Priests rush'd through their ranks, some 

counterfeiting 
The rage they did inspire, some mad indeed 
With their own lies ; they said their god was waiting 
To see his enemies writhe, and burn, and bleed, — 
And that, till then, the snakes of Hell had need 
Of human souls : — three hundred furnaces 
Soon blazed through the wide City, where with 



Men brought their infidel kindred to appease 
God's wrath, and while they burn'd, knelt round on 
quivering knees. 

291 



44 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XLVI. 

The noontide sun was darken'd with that smoke, 
The winds of eve dispersed those ashes gray, 
The madness which these rites had lull'd, awoke 
Again at sunset. — Who shall dare to say 
The deeds which night and fear brought forth, or 

weigh 
In balance just the good and evil there ? 
He might man's deep and searchless heart display, 
And cast a light on those dim labyrinths, where 
Hope, near imagined chasms, is struggling with despair. 

XLVII. 

'Tis said, a mother dragg'd three children then, 
To those fierce flames which roast the eyes in the 

head. 
And laugh'd and died ; and that unholy men, 
Feasting like fiends upon the infidel dead, 
Look'd from their meal, and saw an Angel tread 
The visible floor of Heaven, and it was she ! 
And, on that night, one without doubt or dread 
Came to the fire, and said, " Stop, I am he ! 
Kill mej" they burn'd them both with hellish mockery. 

XLvm. 

And, one by one, that night, young maidens came, 
Beauteous and calm, like shapes of living stone 
Clothed in the light of dreams, and by the flame 
Which shrank as overgorged, they laid them down. 
And sung a slow sweet song, of which alone 
One word was heard, and that was Liberty ; 
And that some kiss'd their marble feet, with moan 
Like love, and died, and then that they did die 
With happy smiles, which sunk in white tranquillity. 



CANTO XL 



I. 

She saw me not— she heard me not^ — alone 
Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood ; 
She spake not, breathed not, moved not — there 

\yas thrown 
Over her look, the shadow of a mood 
Which only clothes the heart in solitude, 
A thought of voiceless depth ;-^-she stood alone ; 
Above, the Heavens were spread ; — below, the flood 
Was murmuring in its caves ; — the wind had blown 
JHLer hair apart, through vyhich her eyes and forehead 
shone. 

n. 

A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains ; 
Before its blue and moveless depth were flying 
Gray mists pour'd forth from the unresting fountains 
Of darkness in the North :— the day was dying: — 
Sudden, the sim shone forth, its beams were lying 
Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see. 
And on the shatter'd vapors, which defying 
The power of light in vain, toss'd restlessly 
In the retfHeayen, Hke wrecks in a tempestuous sea. 



HI. 

It was a stream of living beams, whose bank 
On either side by the cloud's cleft was made; 
And where its chasms that flood of glory drank, 
Its waves gush'd forth like fire, and as if sway'd 
By some mute tempest, roU'd on her ; the shade 
Of her bright image floated on the river 
Of liquid light, which then did end and fade — 
Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver; 
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flame did quiver 



IV. 

I stood beside her, but she saw me not — 
She look'd upon the sea, and skies, and earth; 
Rapture, and love, and admiration wrought 
A passion deeper far than tears, or mirth, 
Or speech, or gesture, or whate'er has birth 
From common joy; which, with the speechless feeling 
That led her there united, and shot forth 
From her far eyes, a light of deep revealing, 
All but her dearest self from my regard concealing. 



Her lips were parted, and the measured breath 
Was now heard there ; — her dark and intricate eyes 
Orb wdthin orb, deeper than sleep or death, 
Absorb'd the glories of the bu»*ning skies. 
Which, mingling with her heart's deep ecstasies, 
Burst from her looks and gestures ; — and a light 
Of liquid tenderness like love, did rise 
From her whole frame, an atmosphere which quite 
Array 'd her in its beams, tremulous and soft and bright. 

VI. 

She would have clasp'd me to her glowing frame ; 
Those warm and odorous lips might soon have shed 
On mine the fragrance and the invisible flame 
Which now the cold winds stole ; — she would have 

laid 
Upon my languid heart her dearest head ; 
I might have heard her voice, tender and sweet ; 
Her eyes mingling with mine, might soon have fed 
My soul with their own joy. — One moment yet 
I gazed — we parted then, never again to meet ! 

vn. 

Never but once to meet on Earth again ! 
She heard me as I fled — ^her eager tone 
Sunk on my heart, and almost wove a chain 
Around my will to link it -with her own. 
So that my stern resolve was almost gone. 
" I cannot reach thee ! whither dost thou fly ? 
My steps are faint — Come back, thou dearest one- 
Return, ah me ! return" — the wind past by 
On which those accents died, faint, far, and lingeringly. 

VIII. 

Woe! woe! that moonless midnight — Want and Pest 
Were horrible, but one more fell doth rear. 
As in a hydra's swarming lair, its crest 
Eminent among those victims — even the Fear 
Of Hell: each girt by the hot atmosphere 
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion stung 
By his own rage upon his burning bier 
Of circling coals of fire ; but still there clung 
One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung: 
292 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



45 



^ IX. 

Not death — death was no more refuge or rest ; 
Not Ufe— it was despair to be !— not sleep, 
For fiends and chasms of fire had dispossest 
All natural dreams : to wake was not to weep, 
But to gaze, mad and pallid, at the leap 
To which the Future, like a snaky scourge. 
Or like some tyrant's eye, which aye doth keep 
Its withering beam upon his slaves, did urge 

Their steps ,- they heard the roar of Hell's sulphure- 
ous surge. 

X. 
Each of that multitude alone, and lost 
To sense of outward things, one hope yet loiew ; 
As on a foam-girt crag some seaman tost, 
Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew 
Whilst now theshipis sphtting through and through; 
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was heard, 
Started from sick despair, or if there flew 
One murmur on the wind, of'if some word 

Which none can gather yet, the distant crowd has 
stirr'd. 

XI. 

Why became cheeks wan with the kiss of death 
Paler from hope ? they had sustain'd despair. 
Why watch'd those myriads with suspended breath 
Sleepless a second night ? they are not here 
The victims, and hour by hour, a vision drear. 
Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold dead ; 
And even in death their lips are wreathed with 

fear. — 
The crowd is mute and moveless — overhead 
Silent Arcturus shines — ha ! hear'st thou not the tread 

XII. 
Of rushing feet? laughter? the shout, the scream, 
Of triumph not to be contain'd ? see ! hark ! 
They come, they come, give way ! alas, ye deem 
Falsely — 'tis but a crowd of maniacs stark 
Driven, like a troop of spectres, through the dark. 
From the choked well, whence a bright death-fire 

sprung, 
A lurid earth-star, which dropp'd many a spark 
From its blue train, and spreading widely, clung 
To their wild hair, like mist the topmost pines among. 

XIII. 

And many Irom the crowd collected there, 
Join'd that strange dance in fearful sympathies ; 
There was the silence of a long despair, 
When the last echo of those terrible cries 
Came from a distant street, like agonies 
Stifled afar. — Before the Tyrant's throne 
All night his aged Senate sate, their eyes 
In stony expectation fix'd ; when one 
Sudden before them stood, a Stranger and alone. 



XIV. 
Dark Priests and haughty Warriors gazed on him 
With baffled wonder, for a hermit's vest 
Conceal'd his face ; but when he spake, his tone, 
Ere yet the matter did their thoughts arrest, 
Earnest, benignant, calm, as from a breast 
Void of all hate or terror, made them start ; 
For as with gentle accents he address'd 
His speech to them, on each unwilling heart 
Unusual awe did fall— a spirit-quelling dart. 



XV. 

" Ye Princes of the Earth, ye sit aghast 
Amid the ruin which yourselves have made ; 
Yes, desolation heard your trumpet's blast. 
And sprang from sleep ! — dark 'Terror has obey'd 
Your bidding — O, that I whom ye have made 
Your foe, could set my dearest enemy free 
From pain and fear ! but evil casts a shade, 
Which cannot pass so soon, and Hate must be 
The nurse and parent still of an ill progeny. 

XVI. 

" Ye turn to Heaven for aid in your distress ; 
Alas, that ye, though mighty and the wise, 
Who, if ye dared, might not aspire to less 
Than ye conceive of power, should fear the lies 
Which thou, and thou, didst frame for mysteries 
To blind your slaves : — consider your own thought, 
An empty and a cruel sacrifice 
Ye now prepare, for a vain idol wrought 
Out of the fears and hate which vain desires have 
brought. 

XVII. 

" Ye seek for happiness — alas, the day ! 
Ye find it not in luxury nor in gold. 
Nor in the fame, nor in the envied sway 
For which, O willing slaves to Custom old ! 
Severe task-mistress ! ye your hearts have sold. 
Ye seek for peace, and when ye die, to dream 
No evil dreams : all mortal things are cold 
And senseless then ; if aught survive, I deem 
It must be love and joy, for they immortal seem. 

XVIII. 

" Fear not the future, weep not for the past. 
O, could I win your ears to dare be now 
Glorious, and great, and calm ! that ye would cast 
Into the dust those symbols of your woe, 
Purple, and gold, and steel ! that ye would go 
Proclaiming to the nations whence ye came. 
That Want, and Plague, and Fear, from slavery 

flow; 
And that manldnd is free, and that the shame 
Of royalty and faith is lost in freedom's fame. 

XIX. ^-~ 

" If thus, 'tis well — if not, I come to say 
That Laon" — while the Stranger spoke, among 
The Council sudden tumult and affray 
Arose, for many of those warriors young 
Had on his eloquent accents fed and hung 
Like bees on mountain-flowers ; they knew the 

truth. 
And from their thrones in vindication sprung ; 
The men of faith and law then without ruth 
Drew forth their secret steel, and stabb'd each ardent 
youth. 

XX. 
They stabb'd them in the back and sneer'd — a slave 
Who stood behind the throne, those corpses drew 
Each to its bloody, dark, and secret grave ; 
And one more daring raised his steel anew 
To pierce the Stranger : " What hast thou to do 
With me, poor wretch ?" — Calm, solemn, and severe, 
That voice unstrung his sinews, and he threw 
His dagger on the ground, and pale with fear, 
Sate silently — his voice then did the Straffger rear 
293 



46 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXI. 

" It doth avail not that I weep for ye— 
Ye cannot change, since ye are old and gray, 
And ye have chosen your lot — ^your fame must be 
A book of blood, whence in a milder day 
Men shall learn truth, when ye are wrapt in clay : 
Now ye shall triumph. I am Laon's friend, 
And him to your revenge will I betray. 
So you concede one easy boon. Attend ! 
For now I speak of things which ye can apprehend. 

XXII. 
" There is a People mighty in its youth, 
A land beyond the Oceans of the West, 
Where, though with rudest rites, Freedom and Truth 
Are worshipp'd ; from a glorious mother's breast. 
Who, since high Athens fell, among the rest 
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in woe, 
By inbred monsters outraged and oppress'd. 
Turns to her chainless child for succor now, 
It draws the milk of Power in Wisdom's fullest flow. 



xxni. 

" That land is like an Eagle, whose young gaze 
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose golden plume 
Floats moveless on the storm, and in the blaze 
Of sunrise gleams when Earth is wrapt in gloom ; 
An epitaph of glory for the tomb 
Of murder'd Europe may thy fame be made. 
Great People : as the sands shalt thou become ; 
Thy growth is swift as mom, when night must fade ; 
The multitudinous Earth shall sleep beneath thy shade. 

XXIV. 
^* Yes, in the desert there is built a home 
For Freedom. Genius is made strong to rear 
The monuments of man beneath the dome 
Of a new Heaven, myriads assemble there, 
Whom the proud lords of man, in rage or fear. 
Drive from their wasted homes : the boon I pray 
Is this, — that Cythna shall be convoy'd there- 
Nay, start not at the name — America ! 
And then to you this night Laon will I betray. 

XXV. 

•" With me do what ye will. I am your foe ! " 
The light of such a joy as makes the stare 
Of hungry snakes like living emeralds glow, 
Shone in a hundred human eyes — " Where, where 
Is Laon ? haste ! fly ! drag him swiftly here ! 
We grant thy boon." — " I put no trust in ye : 
Swear by the Power ye dread." — " We swear, we 

swear ! " 
The Stranger threw his vest back suddenly, 
And smiled in gentle pride, and said, "Lo! I am he!" 



CANTO XIL 



I. 



The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness 
Spread through the multitudinous streets, fast flying 
Upon the wings of fear ; from his dull madness 
The starveling waked, and died in joy ; the dying. 
Among the corpses in stark agony lying, 
Just heard the happy tidings, and in hope 
Closed their faint eyes ; from house to house replying 
With loud acclaim, the living shook Heaven's cope. 
And fill'd the startled Earth with echoes : morn did 



ope 



II. 



Its pale eyes then ; and lo ! the long array 
Of guards in golden arms, and priests beside, 
Singing their bloody hymns, whose garbs betray 
The blackness of the faith it seems to hide ; 
And see, the tyrant's gem-wrought chariot glide 
Among the gloomy cowls and glittering spears — 
A shape of light is sitting by his side, 
A child most beautiful. I' the midst appears 
Laon, — exempt alone from mortal hopes and fears. 

III. 

His head and feet are bare, his hands are bound 
Behind with heavy chains, yet none do wreak 
Their scoffs on him, though myriads throng around ; 
There are no sneers upon his lip, which speak 
That scorn or hate hath made him bold ; his cheek 
Resolve has not turn'd pale, — ^liis eyes are mild 
And calm, and like the morn about to break. 
Smile on mankind — his heart seems reconciled 
To all things and itself, like a reposing child 

IV. 

Tumult was in the soul of all beside, 
111 joy, or doubt, or fear ; but those who saw 
Their tranquil victim pass, felt wonder glide 
Into their brain, and became calm with awe. 
See, the slow pageant near the pile doth draw. 
A thousand torches in the spacious square, 
Borne by the ready slaves of ruthless law. 
Await the signal round : the morning fair 
Is changed to a dim night by that unnatural glare. 

V. 

And see ! beneath a sun-bright canopy, 
Upon a platform level with the pile. 
The anxious Tyrant sit, enthroned on high. 
Girt by the chieftains of the host ; all smile 
In expectation, but one child : the while 
I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier 
Of fire, and look around ; each distant isle 
Is dark in the bright daAvn ; towers far and near 
Pierce like reposing flames the tremulous atmosphere, 
294 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



47 



VI. 

There was such silence through the host, as when 
An earthquake trampUng on some populous town 
Has crush'd ten thousand with one tread, and men 
Expect the second ! all were mute but one. 
That fairest child, who, bold with love, alone 
Stood up before the king, without avail. 
Pleading for Laon's life — her stifled groan 
Was heard — she trembled like one aspen pale 
Among the gloomy pines of a Norwegian vale. 

VII. 

What were his thoughts link'd in the morning sun, 
Among those reptiles, stingless with delay, 
Even like a tyrant's wrath ? — the signal-gun 
Roar'd — hark, again ! in that dread pause he lay 
As in a quiet dream — the slaves obey — 
A thousand torches drop, — and hark, the last 
Bursts on that awful silence ; far away 
Millions, with hearts that beat both loud and fast. 
Watch for the springing flame expectant and aghast. 

VIII. 

They fly — the torches fall — a cry of fear 
Has startled the triumphant ! — they recede ! 
For ere the cannon's roar has died, they hear 
The tramp of hoofs like earthquake, and a steed 
Dark and gigantic, with the tempest's speed. 
Bursts through their ranks : a woman sits thereon. 
Fairer it seems than aught that earth can breed. 
Calm, radiant, like the phantom of the dawn, 
A spirit from the caves of daylight wandering gone. 

IX. 

All thought it was God's Angel come to sweep 
The lingering guilty to their fiery grave ; 
The tyrant from his throne in dread did leap, — 
Her innocence his child from fear did save ; 
Scared by the faith they feign'd, each priestly slave 
Knelt for his mercy whom they served with blood. 
And, like the refluence of a mighty wave 
Suck'd into the loud sea, the multitude 
With crushing panic, fled in terror's alter'd mood. 



They pause, they blush, they gaze, — a gathering 

shout 
Bursts like one sound from the ten thousand streams 
Of a tempestuous sea : — that sudden rout 
One check'd who, never in his mildest dreams 
Felt awe from grace or loveliness, the seams 
Of his rent heart so hard and cold a creed 
Had sear'd with blistering ice — but he misdeems 
That he is wise, whose wounds do only bleed 
Inly for self, thus thought the Iberian Priest indeed, 

XI. 

And others, too, thought he was wise to see, 
In pain, and fear, and hate, something divine : 
In love and beauty — no divinity. — 
Now with a bitter smile, whose light did shine 
Like a fiend's hope upon his lips and eyne. 
He said, and the persuasion of that sneer 
Rallied his trembling comrades — " Is it mine 
To stand alone, when kings and soldiers fear 
A woman ? Heaven has sent its other victim here." 



XII. 

" Were it not impious," said the King, " to break 
Our holy oath ? " — " Impious to keep it, say ! " 
Shriek'd the exulting Priest — " Slaves, to the stake 
Bind her, and on my head the burthen lay 
Of her just torments : — at the Judgment Day 
Will I stand up before the golden throne 
Of Heaven, and cry. To thee did I betray 
An Infidel ; but for me she would have knovm 
Another moment's joy ! the glory be thine own." 

xin. 

They trembled, but replied not, nor obey'd, 
Pausing in breathless silence. Cythna sprung 
From her gigantic steed, who, like a shade 
Chased by the winds, those vacant streets among 
Fled tameless, as the brazen rein she flung 
Upon his neck, and kiss'd his mooned brow. 
A piteous sight, that one so fair and young. 
The clasp of such a fearful death should woo 
With smiles of tender joy as beam'd from Cythna 
now. 

XIV. 
The warm tears burst in spite of faith and fear, 
From many a tremulous eye, but like soft dews 
Which feed spring's earliest buds, hung gather'd 

there. 
Frozen by doubt, — alas, they could not choose 
But weep ; for when her faint limbs did refuse 
To climb the pyre, upon the mutes she smiled ; 
And vidth her eloquent gestures, and the hues 
Of her quick lips, even as a weary child 
Wins sleep from some fond nurse with its caresses 

mild. 

XV. 
She won them, though unwilling, her to bind 
Near me, among the snakes. When then had fled 
One soft reproach that was most thrilling kind, 
She smiled on me, and nothing then we said, 
But each upon the other's coiuitenance fed 
Looks of insatiate love ; the mighty veil 
Which doth divide the living and the dead 
Was almost rent, the world grew dim and pale — 
All light in Heaven or Earth beside our love did fail. 

XVI. 

Yet, — ^yet — one brief relapse, like the last beam 
Of dying flames, the stainless air around 
Hung silent and serene — a blood-red gleam 
Burst upwards, hurling fiercely from the ground 
The globed smoke, — I heard the mighty sound 
Of its uprise, like a tempestuous ocean ; 
And, through its chasms I saw, as in a s wound, 
The tyrant's child fall without life or motion 
Before his throne, subdued by some unseen emotion. 

XVII. 

And is this death ? the pyre has disappear'd, 
The Pestilence, the Tyrant, and the throng ; 
The flames grow silent — slowly there is heard 
The music of a breath-suspending song. 
Which, like the kiss of love when life is young, 
Steeps the faint eyes in darkness sweet and deep 
With ever-changing notes it floats along. 
Till on my passive soul there seem'd to creep 
A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands that leap. 
295 



48 



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XVIII. 

The warm touch of a soft and tremulous hand 
Waken'd me then ,• lo, Cythna sate recUned 
Beside me, on the waved and golden sand 
Of a clear pool, upon a bank o'ertwined 
With strange and star-bright flowers, which to the 

wind 
Breathed divine odor; high above, was spread 
The emerald heaven of trees of unknown kind. 
Whose moonlike blooms and bright fruit overhead 
A shadow, which was light, upon the waters shed. 

XIX. 

And round about sloped many a lawny mountain 
With incense-bearing forests, and vast caves 
Of marble radiance to that mighty fountain ; 
And where the flood its own bright margin laves, 
Their echoes talk with its eternal waves. 
Which, from the depths whose jagged caverns 

breed 
Their unreposing strife, it lifts and heaves, — 
Till through a chasm of hills they roll, and feed 

A river deep, which flies with smooth but arrowy 
speed. 

XX. 
As we sate gazing in a trance of wonder, 
A boat approach'd, borne by the musical air 
Along the waves which sung and sparkled under 
Its rapid keel — a winged shape sate there, 
A child with silver-shining vdngs, so fair, 
That as her bark did through the waters glide. 
The shadow of the lingering waves did wear 
Light, as from starry beams ; from side to side. 

While veering to the wind, her plumes the bark did 
guide. 

XXI. 
The boat was one curved shell of hollow pearl, 
Almost translucent with the light divine 
Of her within ; the prow and stern did curl 
Horned on high, like the young moon supine. 
When o'er dim twilight mountains dark with pine. 
It floats upon the sunset's sea of beams, 
Whose golden waves in many a purple line 
Fade fast, till borne on sunlight's ebbing streams, 

Dilating, on earth's verge the sunken meteor gleams. 

XXII. 

Its keel has struck the sands beside our feet ; — 
Then Cythna turn'd to me, and from her eyes 
Which swam with unshed tears, a look more sweet 
Than happy love, a wild and glad surprise. 
Glanced as she spake ; " Ay, this is Paradise 
And not a dream, and we are all united ! 
Lo, that is mine own child, who in the guise 
Of madness came, like day lo one benighted 

In lonesome woods : my heart is now too well re- 
qmted ! " 

XXIII. 
And then she wept aloud, and in her arms 
Clasp'd that bright Shape, less marvellously fair 
Than her own human hues and living charms ,° 
Which, as she lean'd in passion's silence there, 
Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of the air, 
Which seem'd to blush and tremble with delight : 
The glossy darkness of her streaming hair 
Fell o'er that snowy child, and wrapt from sight 

The fond and long embrace which did their hearts 



XXIV. 
Then the bright child, the plumed Seraph came, 
And fix'd its blue and beaming eyes on mine, 
And said, " I was disturb'd by tremulous shame 
When once we met, yet knew that I was thine 
From the same hour in which thy lips divine 
Kindled a clinging dream within my brain, 
Which ever waked when I might sleep, lo twine 
Thine image with her memory dear — again 
We meet, exempted now from mortal fear or pain. 

XXV. 

" When the consuming flames had wrapt ye round, 

The hope which I had cherish'd went away ; 

I fell in agony on the senseless ground. 

And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray 

My mind was gone, when bright, like dawning 

day, 
The Spectre of the Plague before me flew, 
And breathed upon my lips, and seem'd to say, 
' They wait for thee, beloved ;' — then I knew 
The death-mark on my breast, and became calm anew. 

XXVI. 

" It was the calm of love — for I was dying. 
I saw the black and half extinguish'd pyre 
In its own gray and shrunken ashes lying ; 
The pitchy smoke of the departed fire 
Still hung in many a hollow dome and spire 
Above the towers like night ; beneath whose shade 
Awed by the ending of their own desire 
The armies stood ; a vacancy was made 
In expectation's depth, and so they stood dismay'd. 

XXVII. 
" The frightful silence of that alter'd mood, 
The tortures of the dying clove alone, 
Till one uprose among the multitude. 
And said — ' The flood of time is rolling on, 
We stand upon its brink, whilst they are gone 
To glide in peace down death's mysterious stream. 
Have ye done well ? they moulder flesh and bone, 
Who might have made this life's envenom'd dream 
A sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, I deem. 

XXVIII. 

" ' These perish as the good and great of yore 
Have perish'd, and their murderers will repent. 
Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow, before 
Yon smoke has faded from the firmament, ^ 
Even for this cause, that ye who must lament 
The death of those that made this world so fair 
Cannot recall them now ; but then is lent 
To man the wisdom of a high despair. 
When such can die, and he live on and linger here. 

XXIX. 

" * Ay, ye may fear not now the Pestilence, 
From fabled hell as by a charm withdrawn, 
All power and faith must pass, since calmly hence 
In pain and fire have unbelievers gone ; 
And ye must sadly turn away, and moan 
In secret, to his home each one returning. 
And to long ages shall this hour be known ; 
And slowly shall its memory, ever burning. 
Fill this dark night of things with an eternal morning. 
296 



THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. 



49 



XXX. 

" ' For me the world is grown too void and cold, 
Since hope pursues immortal destiny 
With steps thus slow — therefore shall ye behold 
How those who love, yet fear not, dare to die j 
Tell to your children this !' then suddenly 
I He sheathed a dagger in his heart, and fell; 
My brain grew dark in death, and yet to me 
There came a murmur from the crowd, to tell 
Of deep and mighty change which suddenly befell. 

XXXI. 

" Then suddenly I stood a winged Thought 
Before the immortal Senate, and the seat 
Of that star-shining spirit, whence is wrought 
The strength of its dominion, good and great, 
The better Genius of this world's estate. 
His realm around one mighty Fane is spread, 
Elysian islands bright and fortunate. 
Calm dwellings of the free and happy dead, 
Where I amsenttolead!" these winged words she said, 

XXXII. 

And with the silence of her eloquent smile, 
Bade us embark in her divine canoe ; 
Then at the helm we took our seat, the while 
Above her head those plumes of dazzling hue 
' Into the winds' invisible stream she threw, 
I Sitting beside the prow : like gossamer, 

On the swift breath of morn, the vessel flew 
O'er the bright whirlpools of that fountain fair, 
Whose shores receded fast, whilst we seem'd linger- 
ing there ; 

XXXIII. 

Till down that mighty stream dark, calm, and fleet. 
Between a chasm of cedar mountains riven. 
Chased by the thronging winds whose viewless feet 
As swift as twinkling beams, had, under Heaven, 
From woods and waves wild sounds and odors driven, 
The boat fled visibly — three nights and days. 
Borne like a cloud through morn, and noon, and even. 
We sail'd along the winding watery ways 
Of the vast stream, a long and labyrinthine maze. 

XXXIV. 
A scene of joy and wonder to behold 
That river's shapes and shadows changing ever. 
Where the broad sunrise, fiU'd with deepening gold. 
Its whirlpools, where all hues did spread and quiver, 
i A^d where melodious falls did burst and sMver 
Among rocks clad with flowers, the foam and spray 
Sparkled like stars upon the sunny river. 
Or when the moonlight pour'd a holier day, 
One vast and glittering lake around green islands lay. 

XXXV. 

Mom, noon, and even, that boat of pearl outran 
The streams which bore it, like the arrowy cloud 
Of tempest, or the speedier thought of man. 
Which flieth forth and cannot make abode. 
Sometimes through forests, deep like night, we glode. 
Between the walls of mighty mountains crown'd 
With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets proud. 
The homes of the departed, dimly frown'd 
O'er the bright waves which girt their dark founda- 
tions round. 

2N 



XXXVI. 

Sometimes between the wide and flowering 

meadows. 
Mile after mile we sail'd, and 'twas delight 
To see far off the sunbeams chase the shadows 
Over the grass ; sometimes beneath the night 
Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs were bright 
With starry gems, we fled, whilst from their deep 
And dark-green chasms, shades beautiful and white, 
Amid sweet sounds aoross our path would sweep. 
Like swift and lovely dreams that walk the waves 

of sleep. 

XXXVII. 

And ever as we sail'd, our minds were full 
Of love and wisdom, which would overflow 
In converse wild, and sweet, and wonderful ; 
And in quick smiles whose light would come and go. 
Like music o'er wide waves, and in the flow 
Of sudden tears, and in the mute caress — 
For a deep shade was cleft, and we did know. 
That virtue, though obscured on Earth, not less 
Survives all mortal change in lasting loveliness. 

XXXVIII. 

Three days and nights we sail'd, as thought and 

feeling 
Number delightful hours — for through the sky 
The sphered lamps of day and night, revealing 
New changes and new glories, roll'd on high. 
Sun, Moon, and moonlike lamps, the progeny 
Of a diviner Heaven, serene and fair : 
On the fourth day, wild as a wind-wrought sea 
The stream became, and fast and faster bare 
The spirit-winged boat, steadily speeding there. 

XXXIX. 

Steadily and swift, where the waves roU'd like 

mountains 
Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did pour 
Tumultuous floods from their ten thousand fountains, 
The thunder of whose earth-uplifting roar 
Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from the shore, 
Calm as a shade, the boat of that fair child 
Securely fled, that rapid stress before. 
Amid the topmost spray, and sunbows wild. 
Wreathed in the silver mist : in joy and pride we smiled. 

XL. 

The torrent of that wide and raging river 
Is past, and our aerial speed suspended. 
We look behind; a golden mist did quiver 
When its wild surges with the lake were blended : 
Our bark hung there, as one line suspended 
Between two Heavens, that windless waveless lake ; 
Which four great cataracts from four vales, attended 
By mists, aye feed ; from rocks and clouds they break. 
And of that azure sea a silent refuge make. 

XLI. 

Motionless resting on the lake awhile, 
I saw its marge of snow-bright mountains rear 
Their peaks aloft, I saw each radiant isle. 
And in the midst, afar, even like a sphere 
Hung in one hollow sky, did there appear 
The Temple of the Spirit ; on the sound 
Wliich issued thence, drawn nearer and more near, 
Like the swift moon this glorious earth around. 
The charmed boat approach 'd, and there its haven 
found. 

297 



50 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



KMt €tntU 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



DEDICATION. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, 

I INSCRIBE with your name, from a distant country, 
and after an absence whose months have seemed 
years, this the latest of my literary efforts. 

Those writings which I have hitherto published, 
have been little else than visions which impersonate 
my ovm apprehensions of the beautiful and the just. 
1 can also perceive in them the literary defects inci- 
dental to youth and impatience ; they are dreams of 
what ought to be, or may be. The drama which I 
now present to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the 
presumptuous attitude of an instructor, and am con- 
tent to paint, with such colors as my own heart fur- 
nishes, that which has been. 

Had I known a person more highly endowed than 
yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess, I 
had solicited for this work the ornament of his name. 
One more gentle, honorable, innocent and brave ; one 
of more exalted toleration for all who do and think 
evil, and yet himself more free from evil ; one who 
knows better how to receive, and how to confer a 
benefit, though he must ever confer far more than he 
can receive ; one of simpler, and, in the highest sense 
of the word, of purer life and manners, I never 
knew : and I had already been fortunate in friend- 
ships when your name was added to the list. 

In that patient and irreconcilable enmity with do- 
mestic and political tyranny and imposture which the 
tenor of your life has illustrated, and which, had I 
health and talents, should illustrate mine, let us, 
comforting each other in our task, live and die. 

AH happiness attend you ! 

Your affectionate friend, 



Percy B. Shelley. 



Rome, May 29, 1819. 



PREFACE. 



A MANUSCRIPT was communicated to me during my 
travels in Italy which was copied from the archives 
of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed 
account of the horrors which ended in the extinction 
of one of the noblest and richest families of that 
city, during the Pontificate of Clement VIII., in the 
year 1599. The story is, that an old man having 
spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived 
at length an implacable hatred towards his children ; 
which showed itself towards one daughter under the 
form of an incestuous passion, aggravated by every 
circumstance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, 
after long and vain attempts to escape from what she 



considered a perpetual contamination both of body 
and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law 
and brother to murder their common tyrant. The 
young maiden, who was urged to this tremendous 
deed by an impulse which overpowered its horror, 
was evidently a most gentle and amiable being ; a 
creature formed to adorn and be admired, and thus 
violently thwarted from her nature by the necessity 
of circumstance and opinion. The deed was quickly 
discovered ; and in spite of the most earnest prayers 
made to the Pope by the highest persons in Rome, 
the criminals were put to death. The old man had 
during his life repeatedly bought his pardon from the 
Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and 
unspeakable kind, at the price of a hundred thousand 
crowns; the death therefore of his victims can 
scarcely be accounted for by the love of justice. The 
Pope, among other motives for severity, probably felt 
that whoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his 
treasury of a certain and copious source of revenue. 
The Papal Government formerly took the most ex- 
traordinary precautions against the publicity of facts 
which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own 
wickedness and weakness ; so that the communication 
of the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter 
of some difficulty. Such a story, if told so as to pre- 
sent to the reader all the feelings of those who once 
acted it, their hopes and fears, their confidences and 
misgivings, their various interests, passions and opin- 
ions, acting upon and with each other, yet all con- 
spiring to one tremendous end, would be as a light 
to make apparent some of the most dark and secret 
caverns of the human heart. 

On my arrival at Rome, I found that the story of 
the Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in Ital- 
ian society without awakening a deep and breathless 
interest ; and that the feelings of the company never 
failed to incline to a romantic pity for the wrongs, 
and a passionate exculpation of the horrible deed to 
which they urged her, who has been mingled two 
centuries with the common dust. All ranks of people 
knew the outlines of this history, and participated in 
the overwhelming interest which it seems to have 
the magic of exciting in the human heart. I had a 
copy of Guido's picture of Beatrice which is preserved 
in the Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly re- 
cognized it as the portrait of Im, Cenci. 

This national and universal interest which the 
story produces and has produced for two centuries, 
and among all ranks of people, in a great City, where 
the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, 
first suggested to me the conception of its fitness for 
a dramatic purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which has 
already received, from its capacity of awakening and 
sustaining the sympathy of men, approbation and 
success. Nothing remained, as I imagined, but to 
clothe it to the apprehensions of my countrymen in 
such language and action as would bring it home to 
their hearts. The deepest and the sublimest tragic 
compositions, King Lear and the two plays in which 
the tale of CEdipus is told, were stories which already 
298 



THE CENCI. 



51 



existed in tradition, as matters of popular belief and 
interest, before Shakspeare and Sophocles made them 
familiar to the sympathy of all succeeding genera- 
tions of mankind. 

This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently fearful 
and monstrous : any thing like a dry exhibition of it 
on the stage would be insupportable. The person 
who would treat such a subject, must increase the 
ideal, and diminish the actual horror of the events, 
so that the pleasure which arises from the poetry 
which exists in these tempestuous sufferings and 
crimes, may mitigate the pain of the contemplation 
of the moral deformity from which they spring. 
There must also be nothing attempted to make the 
exhibition subservient to what is vulgarly termed a 
moral purpose. The highest moral purpose aimed at 
in the highest species of the drama, is the teaching 
the human heart, through its sympathies and an- 
tipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to 
the possession of which knowledge, every human 
being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant, and kind. If 
dogmas can do more, it is well: but a drama is no fit 
place for the enforcement of them. Undoubtedly, 
no person can be truly dishonored by the act of an- 
other ,• and the fit return to make to the most enor- 
mous injuries is kindness and forbearance, and a 
resolution to convert the injurer from his dark pas- 
sions by peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, 
atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had 
thought in this manner, she would have been vdser 
and better ; but she would never have been a tragic 
character: the few whom such an exhibition would 
have interested, could never have been sufficiently 
interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want of 
finding sympathy in their interest among the mass 
who surround them. It is in the restless and anato- 
mizing casuistry with which men seek the justification 
of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs 
justification; it is in the superstitious horror with 
which they contemplate alike her wrongs and their 
revenge, that the dramatic character of what she did 
and suffered consists. 

I have endeavored as nearly as possible to repre- 
sent the characters as they probably were, and have 
sought to avoid the error of making them actuated 
by my own conceptions of right or wrong, false or 
true : thus under a thin veil converting names and 
actions of the sixteenth century into cold imperson- 
ations of my own mind. They are represented as 
Catholics, and as Catholics deeply tinged with re- 
ligion. To a Protestant apprehension there will 
appear something unnatural in the earnest and per- 
petual sentiment of the relations between God and 
man which pervade the tragedy of the Cenci. It 
will especially be starded at the combination of an 
undoubting persuasion of the truth of the popular 
religion, with a cool and determined perseverance in 
enormous guilt. But religion in Italy is not, as in 
Protestant countries, a cloak to be worn on particular 
days ; or a passport which those who do not wish to 
be railed at carry with them to exhibit ; or a gloomy 
passion for penetrating the impenetrable mysteries 
of our being, which terrifies its possessor at the 
darkness of the abyss to the brink of which it has 
conducted him. Religion coexists, as it were, in 
the mind of an Italian Catholic with a faith in that 
of which all men have the most certain knowledge. 
It is interwoven with the whole fabric of life. It is 
adoration, faith, submission, penitence, blind admira- 
tion ; not a rulg for moral conduct. It has no neces- 



sary connexion with any one virtue. The most 
atrocious villain may be rigidly devout, and, without 
any shock to established faith, confess himself to be 
so. Religion pervades intensely the whole frame 
of society, and is, according to the temper of the 
mind which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an 
excuse ; a refuge : never a check. Cenci himself 
built a chapel in the court of his Palace, and dedi- 
cated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, and established 
masses for the peace of his soul. Thus in the first 
scene of the fourth act, Lucre tia's design in exposing 
herself to the consequences of an expostulation with 
Cenci after having administered the opiate, was to 
induce him by a feigned tale to confess himself be- 
fore death; this being esteemed by Catholics as es- 
sential to salvation; and she only relinquishes her 
purpose when she perceives that her perseverance 
would expose Beatrice to new outrages. 

I have avoided with great care in writing this 
play the introduction of what is commonly called 
mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be 
found a detached simile or a single isolated description, 
unless Beatrice's description of the chasm appointed 
for her father's murder should be judged to be of 
that nature.* 

In a dramatic composition, the imagery and the 
passion should interpenetrate one another, the former 
being reserved simply for the full development and 
illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the im- 
mortal God which should assume flesh for the re- 
demption of mortal passion. It is thus that the most 
remote and the most familiar imagery may alike be 
fit for dramatic purposes when employed in the il- 
lustration of strong feeling, which raises what is 
low,, and levels to the apprehension that which is 
lofty, casting over all the shadow of its own great- 
ness. In other respects I have written more care- 
lessly ; that is, without an over-fastidious and learned 
choice of words. In this respect I entirely agree 
with those modern critics who assert, that in order 
to move men to true sympathy we must use the fa- 
miliar language of men ; and that our great ances- 
tors the ancient English poets are the writers, a 
study of whom might incite us to do that for our own 
age which they have done for theirs. But it must 
be the real language of men in general, and not that 
of any particular class to whose society the writer 
happens to belong. So much for what I have at- 
tempted: I need not be assured that success is a 
very diflferent matter ; particularly for one whose 
attention has but newly been awakened to the study 
of dramatic literature. 

I endeavored whilst at Rome to observe such 
monuments of this story as might be accessible to a 
stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna 
Palace is most admirable as a work of art : it was 
taken by Guide, during her confinement in prison. 
But it is most interesting as a just representation of 
one of the loveliest specimens of the workmanship 
of Nature. There is a fixed and pale composure 
upon the features : she seems sad and stricken down 
in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened 
by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound 
with folds of white drapery, from which the yellow 
strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her 



* An idea in this speech was suggested by a most 
sublime passage in " El Purgatorio de San Patricio" of 
Calderon: the only plagiarism which I have intentionally 
committed in the whole piece. 

299 



52 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely 
delicate ; the eyebrows are distinct and arched : the 
lips have that permanent meaning of imagination 
and sensibility which suffering has not repressed, and 
which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. 
Her forehead is large and clear ; her eyes, which we 
are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are 
swollen with weeping, and lustreless, but beautifully 
tender and serene. In the whole mien, there is a 
simplicity and dignity which, united with her ex- 
quisite loveliness and deep sorrow, are inexpressibly 
pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one 
of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness 
dwell together without destroying one another : her 
nature was simple and profound. The crimes and 
miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer 
are as the mask and the mantle in which circum- 
stances clothed her for her impersonation on the 
scene of the world. 

The Cenci Palace is of great extent , and though 
in part modernized, there yet remains a vast and 
gloomy pile of feudal architecture in the same state 
as during the dreadful scenes which are the subject 
of this tragedy. The Palace is situated in an ob- 
scure corner of Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, 
and from the upper windows you see the immense 
ruins of Mount Palatine half hidden under their 
profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court in one 
part of the palace (perhaps that in which Cenci built 
the Chapel to St. Thomas), supported by granite col- 
umns and adorned with antique friezes of fine work- 
manship, and built up, according to the ancient Italian 
fashion, with balcony over balcony of open work. 
One of the gates of the palace formed of immense 
stones, and leading through a passage, dark and lofty 
and opening into gloomy subterranean chambers, 
struck me particularly. 

Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no further 
information than that which is to be found in the 
manuscript. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 



i His 



sons. 



Count Francesco Cenci. 

GlACOMO, 

Bernardo, 

Cardinal Camillo. 

Orsino, a Prelate. 

Savella, the Pope's Legate. 

Olimpio, 

Marzio, 

Andrea, Servant to Cenci. 

Nobles, Judges, Gtmrds, Servants. 



::( 



Assassins. 



WOMEN. 

Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and 

children. 
Beatrice, his daughter. 



step-mother of his 



The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes 
during the fourth Act to Petronella, a castle 
among the Apulian Appenines. 

Time During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. 



THE CENCL 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 
An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo. 
camillo. 
That matter of the murder is hush'd up 
If you consent to yield his Holiness 
Yoiu" fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.— 
It needed all my interest in the conclave 
To bend him to this point : he said that you 
Bought perilous impunity with your gold , 
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded 
Enrich'd the Church, and respited from hell 
An erring soul which might repent and live : — 
But that the glory and the interest 
Of the high throne he fills, little consist 
With making it a daily mart of guilt 
So manifold and hideous as the deeds 
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. 

CENCI. 

The third of my possessions — let it go ! 

Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope 

Had sent his architect to view the ground. 

Meaning to build a villa on my vines 

The next time I compounded with his uncle : 

I little thought he should outwit me so ! 

Henceforth no witness — not the lamp — shall see 

That which the vassal threaten'd to divulge 

Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. 

The deed he saw could not have rated higher 

Than his most worthless life : — it angers me ! 

Respited from Hell ! — So may the Devil 

Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope 

Clement, 
And his most charitable nephews, pray 
That the apostle Peter and the saints 
Will grant for their sakes that I long enjoy 
Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of 

days 
Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards 
Of their revenue. — But much yet remains 
To which they show no title. 

CAMILLO. 

Oh, Count Cenci ! 
So much that thou might'st honorably live, 
And reconcile thyself with thine own heart, 
And with thy God, and with the offended world. 
How hideously look deeds of lust and blood 
Through those snow-white and venerable hairs ! 
Your children should be sitting round you now, 
But that you fear to read upon their looks 
The shame and misery you have written there. 
Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter? 
Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else 
Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. 
Why is she barr'd from all society 
But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs ? 
Talk with me. Count, — you know I mean you well. 
I stood beside your dark and fiery youth 
Watching its bold and bad career, as men 
Watch meteors, but it vanish'd not — I mark'd 
Your desperate and remorseless manhood ; now 
300 



THE CENCI. 



53 



Do I behold you in dishonor'd age 

Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. 

Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, 

And in that hope have saved your life three times. 

CENCI. 

For which Aldobrandino owes you now 
My fief beyond the Pincian. — Cardinal, 
One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth, 
And so we shall converse with less restraint 
A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter- 
He was accustom'd to frequent my house ; 
So the next day his wife and daughter came 
And ask'd if I had seen him ; and I smiled : 
I think they never saw him any more. 

CAMILLO. 

Thou execrable man, beware ! — 

CKNCI. 

Of thee ? 
Nay, this is idle : — We should know each other. 
As to my character for what men call crime, 
Seeing I please my senses as I list. 
And vindicate that right with force or guile, 
It is a public matter, and I care not 
If I discuss it with you. I may speak 
Alike to you and my ovra conscious heart — 
For you give out that you have half reform'd me. 
Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent 
If fear should not ; both vidll, I do not doubt. 
All men delight in sensual luxury. 
All men enjoy revenge ; and most exult 
Over the tortures they can never feel — 
Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. 
But I delight in nothing else. I love 
The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, 
When this shall be another's, and that mine. 
And I have no remorse and little fear. 
Which are, I think, the checks of other men. 
This mood has grown upon me, until now 
Any design my captious fancy makes 
The picture of its wish, and it forms none 
But such as men like you would start to know, 
Is as my natural food and rest debarr'd 
Until it be accomplish'd. 



CAMILLO. 

Art thou not 



Most miserable ? 



CENCL 

Why miserable ? — 
No. — I am what your theologians call 
Harden'd ; — which they must be in impudence. 
So to revile a man's peculiar taste. 
True, I was happier than I am, while yet 
Manhood remain'd to act the thing I thought ; 
While lust was sweeter than revenge ; and now 
Invention palls : — Ay, we must all grow old — 
But that there yet remains a deed to act 
Whose horror might make sharp an appetite 
Duller than mine— I 'd do,— I know not what. 
When I was^young I thought of nothing else 
But pleasure ; and I fed on honey sweets : 
Men, by St. Thomas ! cannot live like bees. 
And I grew tired : — yet, till I kill'd a foe, 
And heard his groans, and heard his children' 
Knew I not what delight was else on earth. 
Which now dehghts me little. I the rather 
I/)ok on such pangs as terror ill conceals, 



groans. 



The dry fix'd eye-ball ; the pale quivering lip. 
Which tell me that the spirit weeps within 
Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. 
I rarely kill the body, which preserves. 
Like a strong prison, the soul within my power. 
Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear 
For hourly pain. 

CAMILLO. 

Hell's most abandon'd fiend 
Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, 
Speak to his heart as now you speak to me. 
I thank my God that I believe you not. 

Enter Andrea. 

ANBREA. 

My lord, a gentleman from Salamanca 
Would speak with you. 

CENCI. 

Bid him attend me in the grand saloon. 

[Esn^t Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell ; and I will pray 

Almighty God that thy false, impious words 

Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. 

[Esdt Camiixo. 

CENCI. 

The third of my possessions ! I must use 
Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, 
Falls from my wither'd hand. But yesterday 
There came an order from the Pope to make 
Fourfold provision for my cursed sons ; 
Whom I have sent from Rome to Salamanca, 
Hoping some accident might cut them oflT; 
And meaning, if I could, to starve them there. 
I^ray thee, God, send some quick death upon them! 
Bernardo and my wife could not be worse 
If dead and damn'd : — then, as to Beatrice — 

[LooJiing around him suspiciously. 
I think they cannot hear me at that door : 
What if they should ? And yet I need not speak 
Though the heart triumphs vdth itself in words. 
O, thou most silent air, that shall not hear 
What now I think ! Thou pavement, which I tread 
Towards her chamber, — let your echoes talk 
Of my imperious step scorning surprise. 
But not of my intent ! — Andrea ! 

Enter Andrea. 

ANDREA. 

My lord? 

CENCI. 

Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber 
This evening : — no, at midnight and alone. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 

A garden of the Genci Palace. 

Enter Beatrice and Orsino, as in conversation. 

BEATRICE. 

Pervert not truth, 

Orsino. You remember where we held 
That conversation ; — nay, we see the spot 
Even from this cypress ; — two long years are past 
Since, on an April midnight, underneath 
The moonlight ruins of Mount Palatine, 
d confess to you my secret mind. 
301 



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ORSINO. 

You said you loved me then. 

BEATRICE. 

You are a Priest : 
Speak to me not of love. 

ORSINO. 

I may obtain 
The dispensation of the Pope to marry. 
Because I am a Priest, do you believe 
Your image, as the hunter some struck deer, 
Follows me not w^hether I wake of sleep ? 

BEATRICE. 

As I have said, speak to me not of love ; 

Had you a dispensation, I have not ; 

IVor will I leave this home of misery 

Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady 

To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, 

Must suffer what I still have strength to share. 

Alas, Orsino ! All the love that once 

I felt for you, is turn'd to bitter pain. 

Ours w'as a youthful contract, which you first 

Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. 

And yet I love you still, but holily, 

Even as a sister or a spirit might ; 

And so I swear a cold fidelity. 

And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. 

You have a sly, equivocating vein 

That suits me not. — Ah, wretched that I am! 

Where shall I turn ? Even now you look on me 

As you were not my friend, and as if you 

Discover'd that I thought so, with false smiles 

Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. 

Ah ! No, forgive me ; sorrow makes me seem 

Sterner than else my nature might have been ; 

I have a weight of melancholy thoughts. 

And they forbode, — but what can they forbode 

Worse than I now endure ? 

ORSINO. 

All will be well. 
Is the petition yet prepared ? You know 
My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice ; 
Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill 
So that the Pope attend to your complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

Your zeal for all I wish ;— Ah me, you are cold ! 
Your utmost skill — speak but one word — 

(Aside). Alas! 
Weak and deserted creature that I am, 
Here I stand bickering with my only friend! 

{To Orsino). 
This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, 
Orsino ; he has heard some happy news 
From Salamanca, from my brothers there, 
And with this outward show of love he mocks 
His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy. 
For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, 
Which I have heard him pray for on his knees : 
Great God ! that such a father should be mine ! 
But there is mighty preparation made. 
And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there. 
And all the chief nobility of Rome. 
And he has bidden me and my pale mother 
Attire ourselves in festival array. 
Poor lady ! She expects some happy change 
In his dark spirit from this act ; I none. 



At supper I will give you the petition ; 
Till when — farewell. 

orsino. 

Farewell 

[Ecnt Beatrice. 

I know the Pope 
Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow 
But by absolving me from the revenue 
Of many a wealthy see ; and, Beatrice, 
I think to win thee at an easier rate. 
Nor shall he read her eloquent petition: 
He might bestow her on some poor relation 
Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister. 
And I should be debarr'd from all access. 
Then as to what she suffers from her father, 
In all this there is much exaggeration : — 
Old men are testy and will have their way ; 
A man may stab his enemy, or his slave. 
And live a free life as to wine or women, 
And with a peevish temper may return 
To a dull home, and rate his wife and children ; 
Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. 
I shall be well content if on my conscience 
There rest no heavier sin than what they sufier 
From the devices of my love — A net 
From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear 
Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze. 
Whose beams anatomize me nerve by nerve 
And lay me bare, and make me blush to see 
My hidden thoughts. — Ah, no ! A friendless girl 
Who clings to me, as to her only hope : — 
I were a fool, not less than if a panther 
Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye. 
If she escape me. [Exit. 



SCENE III. 



A magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. 

A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lucretia, Beatrice, 
Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. 

CENCI. 

Welcome, my friends and kinsmen ; welcome ye. 
Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church. 
Whose presence honors our festivity. 
I have too long lived like an Anchorite, 
And in my absence from your merry meetings 
An evil word is gone abroad of me ; 
But I do hope that you, my noble friends, 
When you have shared the entertainment here. 
And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given. 
And we have pledged a health or two together. 
Will think me flesh and blood as well as you ,• 
Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, 
But tender-hearted, meek, and pitiful. 

FIRST GUEST. 

In truth, my lord, you seem too light of heart. 
Too sprightly and companionable a man, 
To act the deeds that rumor pins on you. 

[To his companion, 
I never saw such blithe and open cheer 
In any eye ! 

SECOND GUEST. 

Some most desired event. 
In which we all demand a common joy. 
Has brought us hither ; let us hear it. Count. 
302 



THE CENCI. 



55 



CENCI. 

It is indeed a most desired event. 

If when a parent from a parent's heart 

Lifts from this earth to the great Father of all 

A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep, 

And when he rises up from dreaming it ; 

One supplication, one desire, one hope, 

That he would grant a wish for his two sons 

Even all that he demands in their regard — 

And suddenly beyond his dearest hope 

It is accomplish'd, he should then rejoice, 

And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast, 

And task their love to grace his merriment, 

Then honor me thus far — for I am he. 

BEATRICE {to LuCRETIA). 

Great God ! How horrible ! Some dreadful ill 
Must have befallen my brothers. 



Fear not, child. 



He speaks too frankly. 



BEATRICE. 

Ah ! My blood runs cold. 
I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, 
Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. 

CENCI. 

Here are the letters brought from Salamanca ; 

Beatrice, read them to your mother. God ! 

I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform 

By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. 

My disobedient and rebellious sons 

Are dead ! — Why dead ! — What means this change 

of cheer? 
ypu hear me not, I tell you they are dead ; 
j^nd they will need no food or raiment more : 
The tapers that did light them the dark way 
Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not 
Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. 
Rejoice with me — my heart is wondrous glad. 

Beatrice (Lucretia sinks, half fainting ; Beatrice 

supports her). 
It is not true ! — Dear lady, pray look up. 
Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, 
He would not live to boast of such a boon. 
Uxmatural man, thou knowest that it is false. 

CENCI. 

Ay, as the word of God ; whom here I Call 

To witness that I speak the sober truth ; — 

And whose most favoring Providence was shown 

Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco 

Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, 

When the. church fell and crush'd him to a mummy, 

The rest escaped unhurt. . Cristofano 

Was stabb'd in error by a jealous man, 

Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival ; 

All in the self-same hour of the same night ; 

Which shows that Heaven has special care of me. 

I beg those friends who love me, that they mark 

The day a feast upon their calendars. 

It was the twenty-seventh of December : 

Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. 

[The assembly appears confused; several of 
the guests rise. 

FIRST GUEST. 

Oh, horrible ! I will depart. — 

SECOND GUEST. 

And I.— 



THIRD GUEST. 

No, stay ! 
I do believe it is some jest ; though, faith ! 
'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. 
I think his son has married the Infanta, 
Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado. 
'Tis but to season some such news ; stay, stay ! 
I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. 

CENCI (filling a bowl of vdne, and lifting it up). 
Oh, thou bright wine, whose purple splendor leaps 
And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl 
Under the lamplight, as my spirits do, 
To hear the death of my accursed sons ! 
Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood. 
Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, 
And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, 
Who, if a father's curses, as men say, 
CUmb with swift wings after their children's souls. 
And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, 
Now triumphs in my triumph ! — But thou art 
Superfluous ; I have drunken deep of joy, 
And I vdll taste no other wine to-night. 
Here, Andrea ! Bear the bowl around. 



a GUEST {rising). 

Will none among this noble company 
Check the abandon'd villain ? 



Thou wretch ! 



CAMILLO. 

For God's sake, 
Let me dismiss the guests ! You are insane. 
Some ill will come of this. 

SECOND GUEST. 

Seize, silence him ! 



I will! 



FIRST GUEST. 
THIRD GUEST. 



And I! 



CENCI {addressing those who rise with a threatening 
gesture). 
Who moves? Who speaks? 

[Turning to the Company. 
'Tis nothing. 
Enjoy yourselves. — Beware ! for my revenge 
Is as the seal'd commission of a king, 
That kills, and none dare name the murderer. 

[The Banquet is broken up ; several of the 
guests are departing. 



I do entreat you, go not, noble guests : 
What although tyranny, and impious hate 
Stand shelter'd by a father's hoary hair ? 
What if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs 
Who tortures them, and triumphs ? What, if we, 
The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh. 
His children and his wife, whom he is bound 
To love and shelter ? Shall we therefore find 
No refuge in this merciless wide world ? 
Oh, think what deep wrongs must have blotted out 
First love, then reverence in a child's prone mind 
Till it thus vanquish shame and fear ! Oh, think 
I have borne much, and kiss'd the sacred hand 
Which crush'd us to the earth, and thought its stroke 
Was perhaps some paternal chastisement ! 
Have excused much ; doubted ; and when no doubt 
Remain'd, have sought by patience, love and tears 
To soften him ; and when this could not be 
803 



56 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights 
And lifted up to God, the father of all, 
Passionate prayers : and when these were not heard 
I have still borne, — until I meet you here, 
Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast 
Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, 
His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, 
Ye may soon share such merriment again 
As fathers make over their children's graves. 
Oh ! Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, 
Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, 
Camillo, thou art chief justiciary, 
Take us away ! 

CENCi. [He has been conversing with Camillo 

during the first part of Beatrice's speech ; 

he hears the conclusion, and now advances. 
I hope my good friends here 
Will think of their own daughters — or perhaps 
Of their own throats — before they lend an ear 
To this wild girl. 

BEATRICE {not noticing the words of Cenci). 
Dare not one look on me ? 
None answer ? Can one tyrant overbear 
The sense of many best and wisest men ? 
Or is it that I sue not in some form 
Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit ? 
Oh, God ! that I were buried with my brothers! 
And that the flowers of this departed spring 
Were fading on my grave ! And that my father 
Were celebrating now one feast for all ! 

CAMILLO. 

A bitter wish for one so young and gentle ; 
Can we do nothing ? — 

COLONNA. 

Nothing that I see. 
Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy : 
Yet I would second any one. 

A CARDINAL. 

And I. 

CENCI. 

Retire to your chamber, insolent girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire, thou impious man ! Ay, hide thyself 

Where never eye can look upon thee more ! 

Wouldst thou have honor and obedience 

Who art a torturer? Father, never dream, 

Though thou mayst overbear this company. 

But ill must come of ill. — Frown not on me ! 

Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks 

My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat ! 

Cover thy face from every living eye. 

And start if thou but hear a human step : 

Seek out some dark and silent corner, there 

Bow thy white head before offended God, 

And we will kneel around, and fervently 

Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. 

CENCL 

My friends, I do lament this insane girl 

Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. 

Good night, farewell ; I will not make you longer 

Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. 

AJiother time. — 

{Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice. 
My brain is swimming round ; 
Give me a bowl of wine ! 

{To Beatrice). Thou painted viper! 



Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible ! 

I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame. 

Now get thee from my sight ! [Exit Beatrice. 

Here, Andrea, 
Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said 
I would not drink this evening, but I must ; 
For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail 
With thinking what I have decreed to do. 

[Drinking the wine. 
Be thou the resolution of quick youth 
Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stem, 
And age's firm, cold, subtle villany ; 
As if thou wert indeed my children's blood 
Which I did thirst to drink. The charm works well ; 
It must be done, it shall be done, I swear ! 

[Exit. 



ACT IL 
SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. 
Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. 

LUCRETIA. 

Weep not, my gentle boy ; he struck but me, 
Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he 
Had kill'd me, he had done a kinder deed. 
Oh, God Almighty, do thou look upon us. 
We have no other friend but only thee ! 
Yet weep not ; though I love you as my own, 
I am not your true mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh, more, more 
Than ever mother was to any child 
That have you been to me ! Had he not been 
My father, do you think that I should weep? 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas ! poor boy, what else couidst thou have done ? 
Ent^r Beatrice. 
Beatrice {in a hurried voice). 
Did he pass this way ? Have you seen him, brother ? 
Ah ! no, that is his step upon the stairs ; 
'Tis nearer now; his hand i& on the door; 
Mother, if I to thee have ever been 
A duteous child, now save me ! Thou, great God, 
Whose image upon earth a father is. 
Dost thou indeed abandon me ? He comes ; 
The door is opening now ; I see his face ; 
He frowns on others, but he smiles on me. 
Even as he did after the feast last night. 

Enter a Servant. 
Almighty God, how merciful thou art ! 
'Tis but Orsino's servant. — Well, what news 

servant. 
My master bids me say, the Holy Father 
Has sent back your petition thus unopen'd. 

[Giving a Paper. 
And he demands at what hour 't were secure 
To visit you again ? 

LUCRETIA. 

At the Ave-Mary. [Exit Servant. 
So, daughter, our last hope has fail'd ! Ah me ! 
How pale you look ; you tremble, and you stand 
Wrapp'd in some fix'd and fearful meditation^ 
304 



THE CENCI. 



57 



As if one thought were over-strong for you : 
Your eyes have a chill glare ; oh, dearest child ! 
Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me. 

BEATRICE. 

You see I am not mad ; I speak to you. 

LUCRETIA. 

You talk'd of something that your father did 

After that dreadful feast ? Could it be worse 

Than when he smiled, and cried. My sons are dead ! 

And every one look'd in his neighbor's face 

To see if others were as white as he ? 

At the first word he spoke, I felt the blood 

Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance ; 

And when it past, I sat all weak and wild ; 

Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words 

Check'd his unnatural pride ; and I could see 

The devil was rebuked that lives in him. 

Until this hour thus you have ever stood 

Between us and your father's moody wrath 

Like a protecting presence : your firm mind 

Has been our only refuge and defence : 

What can have thus subdued it ? What can now 

Have given you that cold melancholy look, 

Succeeding to your unaccustom'd fear ? 

BEATRICE. 

What is it that you say ? I was just thinking 
'Twere better not to struggle any more. 
Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, 
Yet never — O ! before worse comes of it, 
'T were wise to die : it ends in that at last. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh, talk not so, dear child ! Tell me at once 
What did your father do or say to you ? 
He stay'd not after that accursed feast 
One moment in your chamber. — Speak to me. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us ! 

BEATRICE [speaking very slowly with a forced 
calmness. 
It was one word, mother, one little word ; 
One look, one smile. [ Wildly. 

Oh ! he has trampled me 
Under his feet, and made the blood stream down 
My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all 
Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh 
Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve. 
And we have eaten. — ^He has made me look 
On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust 
Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet hmbs, 
And I have never yet despair'd — but now ! 
What would I say ? [Recovering herself. 

Ah ! no, 'tis nothing new. 
The sufferings we all share have made me wild : 
He only struck and cursed me as he pass'd ; 
He said, he look'd, he did, — nothing at all 
Beyond his wont, yet it disorder'd me. 
Alas ! I am forgetful of my duty, 
I should preserve my senses for your sake. 

LUCRETIA. 

Nay, Beatrice ; have courage, my sweet girl. 
If any one despairs, it should be I, 
Who loved him once, and now must live with him 
Till God in pity call for him or me ; 
For you may, like your sister, find some husband, 
And smile, years hence, with children round your 
knees ,- 

20 



Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil, 
Shall be remember'd only as a dream. 

BEATRICE. 

Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband : 

Did you not nurse me when my mother died ? 

Did you not shield me and that dearest boy ? 

And had we any other friend but you 

In infancy, with gentle words and looks 

To win our father not to murder us ? 

And shall I now desert you ? May the ghost 

Of my dead mother plead against my soul 

If I abandon her who fill'd the place 

She left, with more, even, than a mother's love ! 

BERNARDO. 

And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed 

I would not leave you in this wretchedness, 

Even though the Pope should make me free to live 

In some blithe place, like others of my age. 

With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. 

Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother ! 

LUCRETIA. 

My dear, dear children ! 

Enter Cenci, suddenly. 

CENCI. 

What, Beatrice here ! 
Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face. 

Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair ; 
Look up ! Why, yester-night you dared to look 
With disobedient insolence upon me. 
Bending a stern and an inquiring brow 
On what I meant ; whilst I then sought to hide 
That which I came to tell you — but in vain. 

BEATRICE (wildly, staggering towards the door). 
Oh, that the earth would gape ! Hide me, oh God ! 

CENCI. 

Then it was I whose inarticulate words 
Fell from my lips, who with tottering steps 
Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. 
Stay, I command you — from this day and horn- 
Never again, 1 think, with fearless eye. 
And brow superior, and unalter'd cheek. 
And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, 
Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind ; 
Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber. 
Thou too, lothed image of thy cursed mother, 

[To Bernardo. 
Thy milky, meek face makes me sick ^vith hate ! 

[Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo. 
(Aside). So much has past between us as must make 
Me bold, her fearful. — 'Tis an awful thing 
To touch such mischief as I now conceive : 
So men sit shivering on the dewy bank, 
And try the chill stream with their feet ; once in — 
How the delighted spirit pants for joy ! 

LUCRETIA (advancing timidly towards him). 
Oh, husband ! Pray forgive poor Beatrice, 
She meant not any ill. 

CENCI. 

Nor you perhaps ? 
Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by rote 
Parricide with his alphabet ? Nor Giacomo ? 
Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirr'd 
Enmity up against me with the Pope ? 
Whom in one night merciful God cut off: 
Imiocent lambs I They thought not any ill, 
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You were not hero conspiring ? You said nothing 

Of how I might be dungeon'd as a madman ; 

Or be condemn'd to death for some offence, 

And you would be the witnesses ? — This faihng. 

How just it were to hire assassins, or 

Put sudden poison in my evening's drink ? 

Or smother me when overcome by wine ? 

Seeing we had no other judge but God, 

And he had sentenced me, and there were none 

But you to be the executioners 

Of liis decree enregister'd in Heaven ? 

Oh, no ! You said not this ? 



So help me God, 
I never thought the things you charge me with ! 

CENCI. 

If you dare speak that wicked lie again, 
I '11 kill you. What ! it was not by your counsel 
That Beatrice disturb'd the feast last night ? 
You did not hope to stir some enemies 
Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn 
What every nerve of you now trembles at ? 
You judged that men were bolder than they are : 
Few dare to stand between their grave and me. 

LUCRETIA. 

Look not so dreadfully ! By my salvation 
I knew not aught that Beatrice design'd ; 
Nor do I think she design'd any thing 
Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. 



Blaspheming liar ! You are damn'd for this ! 

But I will take you where you may persuade 

The stones you tread on to deliver you : 

For men shall there be none but those who dare 

All tilings — not question that which I command. 

On Wednesday next I shall set out : you know 

That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella, 

'Tis safely wall'd, and moated round about: 

Its dungeons under ground, and its thick towers 

Never told tales ; though they have heard and seen 

What might make dumb things speak. — Why do you 

linger? 
Make speediest preparation for the journey ! 

[Ex-it LUCRETIA. 

The all-beholding sun yet shines ; I hear 

A busy stir of men about the streets ; 

I see the bright sky through the window-panes : 

It is a garish, broad, and peering day ; 

Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears, 

And every little corner, nook and hole 

Is penetrated with the insolent light. 

Come, darkness ! Yet, what is the day to me ? 

And wherefore should I wish for night, who do 

A deed which shall confound both night and day ? 

'T is she shall grope through a bewildering mist 

Of horror : if there be a sun in heaven, 

She shall not dare to look upon its beams ; 

Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night ; 

The act I think shall soon extinguish all 

For me : I bear a darker deadlier gloom 

Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air. 

Or constellations quench'd in murkiest cloud, 

In which I walk secure and unbeheld 

Towards my purpose. — Would that it were done ! 

[Exit. 



SCENE II. 

A Chamber in the Vatican. 

Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conversation. 

CAMILLO. 

There is an obsolete and doubtful law, 

By which you might obtain a bare provision 

Of food and clothing. 

GIACOMO. 

Nothing more ? Alas ! 
Bare must be the provision which strict law 
Awards, and aged sullen avarice pays. 
Why did my father not apprentice me 
To some mechanic trade ? I should have then 
Been train'd in no high-bom necessities 
Which I could meet not by my daily toil. 
The eldest son of a rich nobleman 
Is heir to all his incapacities ; 
He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, 
Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once 
From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food. 
An hundred servants, and six palaces, 
To that which nature doth indeed require ? 

CAMILLO. 

Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis hard for a firm man to bear : but I 
Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth. 
Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father. 
Without a bond or witness to the deed ; 
And children, who inherit her- fine senses. 
The fairest creatures in this breathing world ; 
And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, 
Do you not think the Pope would interpose 
And stretch authority beyond the law ? 

CAMILLO. 

Though your peculiar case is hard, I know 

The Pope will not divert the course of law. 

After that impious feast the other night 

I spoke with him, and urged him then to check 

Your father's cruel hand ; he frown'd, and said 

" Children are disobedient, and they sting 

Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, 

Requiting years of care vdth contumely. 

I pity the Count Cenci from my heart ; 

His outraged love perhaps awaken'd hate, 

And thus he is exasperated to ill. 

In the great war between the old and young, 

I, who have white hairs and a tottering body. 

Will keep at least blameless neutraUty." 

Enter Orsino. 
You, my good lord Orsino, heard those words. 

ORSINO. 

What words ? 

GIACOMO. 

Alas, repeat them not again ! 
There then is no redress for me, at least 
None but that which I may achieve myself. 
Since I am driven to the brink. — But say, 
My innocent sister and my only brother 
Are dying underneath my father's eye. 
The memorable torturers of this land, 
Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, 

306 



THE CENCI. 



59 



Never inflicted on their meanest slave 

What these endure : shall they have no protection ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why, if they would petition to the Pope, 

I see not how he could refuse it — ^yet 

He holds it of most dangerous example 

In aught to weaken the paternal power, 

Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. 

I pray you now excuse me. I have business 

That will not bear delay. [Exit Camillo. 

GIACOMO. 

But you, Orsino, 
Have the petition ; wherefore not present it ? 

ORSINO. 

I have presented it, and back'd it with 
My earnest prayers, and urgent interest : 
It was return'd unanswer'd. I doubt not 
But that the strange and execrable deeds 
Alleged in it — in truth they might well baffle 
Any belief— have turn'd the Pope's displeasure 
Upon the accusers from the criminal : 
So I should guess from what Camillo said. 

GIACOMO. 

My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold 

Has whisper'd silence to his Holiness : 

And we are left, as scorpions ring'd with fire. 

What should we do but strike ourselves to death ? 

For he who is our murderous persecutor 

Is shielded by a father's holy name, 

Or I would — [Stops abruptly. 

ORSINO. 

What ? Fear not to speak your thought. 
Words are but holy as the deeds they cover : 
A priest who has forsworn the God he serves ; 
A judge who makes the truth weep at his decree ; 
A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, 
But as the mantle of some selfish guile ; 
A father who is all a tyrant seems, 
Were the profaner for his sacred name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask me not what I think ; the unwilling brain 
Feigns often what it would not ; and we trust 
Imagination with such phantasies 
As the tongue dares not fashion into words. 
Which have no words, their horror makes them dim 
To the mind's eye — My heart denies itself 
I To think what you demand. 

ORSINO. 

But a friend's bosom 
Is as the inmost cave of our own mind. 
Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day. 
And from the all-communicating air. 
You look what I suspected. — 

GIACOMO. 

Spare me now ! 
I am as one lost in a midnight wood, 
Who dares not ask some harmless passenger 
The path across the wilderness, lest he, 
As my thoughts are, should be — a murderer. , 
I know you are my friend, and all I dare 
Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. 
But now my heart is heavy, and would take 



Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care 
Pardon me, that I say farewell — farewell ! 
I would that to my own suspected self 
I could address a word so full of peace. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell I — Be your thoughts better or more bold. 

[Exit GiACOMO, 
I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo 
To feed his hope with cold encouragement : 
It fortunately serves my close designs 
That 'tis a trick of this same family 
To analyze their own and other minds. 
Such self anatomy shall teach the will 
Dangerous secrets : for it tempts our powers. 
Knowing what must be thought, and may be done, 
Into the depth of darkest purposes : 
So Cenci fell into the pit ; even I, 
Since Beatrice unveil'd me to myself. 
And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, 
Show a poor figure to my own esteem, 
To which I grow half reconciled. I '11 do 
As little mischief as I can; that thought 
Shall fee the accuser Conscience. [After a pause. 

Now what harm 
If Cenci should be murder'd ? — Yet, if murder'd. 
Wherefore by me ? And what if I could take 
The profit, yet omit the sin and peril 
In such an action ? Of all earthly things 
I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words ; 
And such is Cenci : and while Cenci lives, 
His daughter's dowry were a secret grave 
If a priest wins her. — Oh, fair Beatrice ! 
Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee 
Could but despise danger and gold, and all 
That frowns between my wish and its effect, 
Or smiles beyond it ! There is no escape — 
Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar. 
And follows me to the resort of men. 
And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, 
So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire ; 
And if I strike my damp and dizzy head, 
My hot palm scorches it : her very name. 
But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart 
Sicken and pant ; and thus unprofitably 
I clasp the phantom of unfelt dehghts. 
Till weak imagination half possesses 
The self-created shadow. Yet much longer 
Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours : 
From the unravell'd hopes of Giacomo 
I must work out my own dear purposes. 
I see, as from a tower, the end of all : 
Her father dead; her brother bound to me 
By a dark secret, surer than the grave ; 
Her mother scared and unexpostulating. 
From the dread manner of her wish achieved : 
And she ! — Once more take courage, my faint heart ; 
What dares a friendless maiden match'd with thee? 
I have such foresight as assures success ! 
Some unbeheld divinity doth ever. 
When dread events are near, stir up men's minds 
To black suggestions ; and he prospers best, 
Not who becomes the instrument of ill. 
But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes 
Its empire and its prey of other hearts 
Till it become his slave — as I will do. [EziL 

307 



GO 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ACT m. 

SCENE I. 

An ApaHment in the Cenci Palace. 

LucRETiA ,' to her enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly). 
Reach me that handkerchief! — My brain is hurt ; 
My eyes are full of blood ,' just wipe them for me — 
I see but indistinctly. — 

LUCRETIA. 

My sweet child, 
You have no wound ; 'tis only a cold dew 
That starts from your dear brow — Alas ! alas ! 
What has befallen ? 

BEATRICE. 

How comes this hair undone? 
Its wandering strings must be what blind me so. 
And yet I tied it fast. — O, horrible ! 
The pavement sinks under my feet ! The walls 
Spin round ! I see a woman weeping there, 
And standing calm and motionless, whilst I 
Slide giddily as the world reels — My God ! 
The beautiful blue Heaven is fleck'd with blood ! 
The sunshine on the floor is black ! The air 
Is changed to vapors such as the dead breathe 
In charnel-pits ! Pah ! I am choked ! There creeps 
A clinging, black, contaminating mist 
About me — 'tis substantial, heavy, thick. 
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues 
My fingers and my limbs to one another. 
And eats into my sinews, and dissolves 
My flesh to a pollution, poisoning 
The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life ! 
My God ! I never knew what the mad felt 
Before ; for I am mad beyond all doubt ! 

[More wildly. 
No, I am dead ! These putrefying limbs 
Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul 
Which would burst forth into the wandering air! 

[A pause. 
What hideous thought was that I had even now ? 
'Tis gone ; and yet its burthen remains here 
O'er these dull eyes — upon this weary heart ! 
O, world ! O, life! O, day! O, misery! 

LUCRETIA. 

What ails thee, my poor child? She answers not: 
Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, 
But not its cause ; suffering has dried away 
The source from which it sprung. — 

BEATRICE ifranticly). 

Like parricide — 
Misery has kill'd its father : yet its father 
Never like mine — O, God! What thing am I? 

LUCRETIA. 

My dearest child, what has your father done ? 

BEATRICE {doubtfully). 
Who art thou, questioner ? I have no father. 

[Aside. 
She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me : 
It is a piteous office. 

[To LucRETiA, in a slow, subdued voice. 
Do you know, 
I thought I was that wretched Beatrice 
Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales 



From hall to hall by the entangled hair ; 

At others, pens up naked in damp cells 

Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, 

Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story 

So did I overact in my sick dreams, 

That I imagined — no, it cannot be ! 

Horrible things have been in this wild world. 

Prodigious niixtures, and confusions strange 

Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived 

Than ever there was found a heart to do. 

But never fancy imaged such a deed 

As — [Pauses, suddenly recollecting lierself. 

Who art thou ? Swear to me, ere I die 
With fearful expectation, that indeed 
Thou art not what thou seemest — Mother ! 



Oh! 



My sweet child, know you— 



BEATRICE. 

Yet speak it not : 
For then if this be truth, that other too 
Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, 
Link'd with each lasting circumstance of life, 
Never to change, never to pass away. 
Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace ; 
Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. 
I have talk'd some wild words, but will no more. 
Mother, come near me : from this point of time, 
I am — [Her voice dies away faintly. 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas! What has befallen thee, child ? 
What has thy father done ? 

BEATRICE. 

What have I done ? 
Am I not innocent ? Is it my crime 
That one with white hair, and imperious brow. 
Who tortured me from my forgotten years. 
As parents only dare, should call himself 
My father, yet should be ! — Oh, what am I ? 
What name, what place, what memory shall be mine? 
What retrospects, outhving even despair ? 

LUCRETIA. 

He is a violent tyrant, surely, child : 

We know that death alone can make us free ; 

His death or ours. But what can he have done 

Of deadlier outrage or worse injury ? 

Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth 

A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me : 

Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine 

With one another. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis the restless life 
Tortured within them. If I try to speak 
I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done ; 
What, yet I know not — something which shall make 
The thing that I have suflfer'd but a shadow 
In the dread lightning which avenges it ; 
Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying 
The consequence of what it cannot cure. 
Some such thing is to be endured or done : 
When I know what, I shall be still and calm, 
And never any thing will move me more. 
But now ! — Oh blood, which art my father's blood, 
Circling through these contaminated veins, 
If thou, pour'd forth on the polluted earth. 
Could wash away the crime, and punishment 
308 



i 



THE CENCI. 



61 



By which I suffer — no, that cannot be ! 
Many might doubt there were a God above 
Who sees and permits evil, and so die : 
That faith no agony shall obscure in me. 

LUCRETIA. 

It must indeed have been some bitter wrong ; 
Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh ! my lost child, 
Hide not in proud impenetrable grief 
Thy sufferings from my fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I hide them not. 
What are the words which you would have me speak? 
I, who can feign no image in my mind 
Of that which has transform'd me. I, whose thought 
Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up 
In its own formless horror. Of all words, 
That minister to mortal intercourse, 
Which wouldst thou hear ? For there is none to tell 
My misery : if another ever knew 
Aught like to it, she died as I will die, 
And left it, as I must, without a name. 
Death ! Death ! Our law and our religion call thee 
A punishment and a reward — Oh, which 
Have I deserved ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The peace of innocence; 
Till in your season you be called to heaven. 
Whate'er you may have suffer'd, you have done 
No evil. Death must be the punishment 
Of crime, or the reward of trampling down 
I The thorns which God has strew'd upon the path 
Which leads to immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay, death — 
The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God, 
j Let me not be bewilder'd while I judge. 
I If I must live day after day, and keep 

These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy spirit, 
I As a foul den from which what thou abhorrest 
' May mock thee, unavenged — it shall not be ! 
I Self-murder — no, that might be no escape, 
I For thy decree yawns like a Hell between 
Our will and it : — Oh ! in this mortal world 
There is no vindication and no law 
Which can adjudge and execute the doom 
Of that through which I suffer. 

Enter Orsino. 

(She approaches him solemnly). Welcome, Friend ! 

I have to tell you that, since last we met, 

I have endured a wrong so great and strange. 

That neither life nor death can give me rest. 

Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds 

Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. 

ORSINO. 

And what is he who has thus injured you ? 

BEATRICE. 

The man they call my father : a dread name. 

ORSINO. 

It cannot be — 

BEATRICE. 

What it can be, or not, 
Forbear to think. It is, and it has been ,* 
Advise me how it shall not be again. 
I thought to die ; but a religious awe 
Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself 



Might be no refuge from the consciousness 
Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak ! 

ORSINO. 

Accuse him of the deed, and let the law 
Avenge thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! 
If I could find a word that might make known 
The crime of my destroyer ; and that done, 
My tongue should hke a knife tear out the secret 
Which cankers my heart's core ; ay, lay all bare, 
So that my unpolluted fame should be 
With vilest gossips a stale-mouth'd story ; 
A mock, a byword, an astonishment : — 
If this were done, which never shall be done. 
Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate. 
And the strange horror of the accuser's tale. 
Baffling belief, and overpowering speech ; 
Scarce whisper'd, unimaginable, wrapt 
In hideous hints — Oh, most assured redress ! 

ORSINO. 

You will endure it then ? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure ? — Orsino, 
It seems your counsel is small profit. 

[Turns from him, and speaks half to herself 
Ay, 
All must be suddenly resolved and done. 
What is this undistinguishable mist 
Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow. 
Darkening each other ? 

ORSINO. 

Should the offender live ? 
Triumph in his misdeed ? and make, by use. 
His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt. 
Thine element ; until thou mayest become 
Utterly lost ; subdued even to the hue 
Of that which thou permittest ? 

BEATRICE {to herself). 

Mighty Death! 
Thou double-visaged shadow ! Only judge ! 
Rightfullest arbiter ! 

[She retires absorbed in thought. 

LUCRETIA. 

If the lightning 
Of God has e'er descended to avenge — 

ORSINO. 

Blaspheme not! His high Providence commits 
Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs 
Into the hands of men ; if they neglect 
To punish crime— 

LUCRETIA. 

But if one, like this wretch, 
Should mock with gold, opinion, law, and power ? 
If there be no appeal to that which makes 
The guiltiest tremble ? If because our wrongs, 
For that they are unnatural, strange and monstrous, 
Exceed all measure of belief? Oh, God! 
If, for the very reasons which should make 
Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs ? 
And we the victims, bear worse punishment 
Than that appointed for their torturer ? 

ORSINO. 

Think not 
But that there is redress where there is wrong, 
So we be bold enough to seize it. 

309 



62 



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LUCRETIA. 

How? 
If there were any way to make all sure, 
I know no^-but I think it might be good 
To— 

ORSINO. 

Why, his late outrage to Beatrice ; 
For it is such, as I but faintly guess. 
As makes remorse dishonor, and leaves her 
Only one duty, how she may avenge : 
You, but one refuge from ills ill endured ; 
Me, but one counsel — 

LUCRETIA. 

For we cannot hope 
That aid, or retribution, or resource 
Will arise thence, where every other one 
Might find them with less need. 

(Beatrice advances.) 

ORSINO. 

Then— 

BEATRICE. 

Peace, Orsino ! 
And, honor'd lady, while I speak, I pray 
That you put off, as garments overworn, 
Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear. 
And all the fit restraints of daily life. 
Which have been borne from childhood, but which 

now 
Would be a mockery to my holier plea. 
As I have said, I have endured a wrong. 
Which, though it be expressionless, is such 
As asks atonement ; both for what is past, 
And lest I be reserved, day after day. 
To load with crimes an overburthen'd soul, 
And be — what ye can dream not. I have pray'd 
To God, and I have talk'd with my own heart, 
And have unravell'd my entangled will, 
And have at length determined what is right. 
Art thou my friend, Orsino ? False or true ? 
Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. 

ORSINO. 

I swear 
To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, 
My silence, and whatever else is mine. 
To thy commands. 

LUCRETIA. 

You think we should devise 
His death? 

BEATRICE. 

And execute what is devised. 
And suddenly. We must be brief and bold. 

ORSINO. 

And yet most cautious. 

LUCRETIA. 

For the jealous laws 
Would punish us with death and infamy 
For that which it became themselves to do. 

BEATRICE. 

Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino, 
What are the means ? 

ORSINO. 

I know two dull, fierce outlaws, 
Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they 
Would trample out, for any shght caprice. 
The meanest or the noblest life. This mood 
Is marketable here in Rome. They sell 
What we now want. 



LUCRETIA. 'im 

To-morrow before dawn, ^fl 
Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, « 

Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. 
If he arrive there — 

BEATRICE. 

He must not arrive. 

ORSINO. 

Will it be dark before you reach the tower? 

LUCRETIA. 

The sun will scarce be set. 

BEATRICE. 

But I remember 
Two miles on this side of the fort, the road 
Crosses a deep ravine ; 'tis rough, and narrow. 
And winds with short turns down the precipice ; 
And in its depth there is a mighty rock. 
Which has, from unimaginable years, 
Sustain'd itself with terror and with toil 
Over a gulf, and with the agony 
With which it clings, seems slowly coming down ; 
Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour. 
Clings to the mass of life ; yet clinging, leans ; 
And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss 
In which it fears to fall : beneath this crag 
Huge as despair, as if in weariness. 
The melancholy mountain yawns — below, 
You hear but see not an impetuous torrent 
Raging among the caverns, and a bridge ^ 

Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, 
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, 
Cedars, and yews, and pines ; whose tangled hair 
Is matted in one solid roof of shade 
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. 

ORSINO. 

Before you reach that bridge, make some excuse 
For spurring on your mules, or loitering 
Until— 

BEATRICE. 

What sound is that? 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark ! No, it cannot be a servant's step : 

It must be Cenci, unexpectedly 

Return'd — Make some excuse for being here. 

BEATRICE {to Orsino, as she goes out). 
That step we hear approach must never pass 
The bridge of which we spoke. 

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. 

ORSINO. 

What shall I do? 
Cenci must find me here, and I must bear 
The imperious inquisition of his looks 
As to what brought me hither : let me mask 
Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. 

Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner. 
How ! Have you ventured thither ? know you then 
That Cenci is from home ? 

GIACOMO. 

I sought him here ; 
And now must wait till he returns. 

ORSINO. 

Great God . 
Weigh you the danger of fliis rashness ? 
310 



THE CENCI. 



63 



Ay! 
Does my destroyer know his danger ? We 
Are now no more, as once, parent and child, 
But man to man ; the oppressor to the oppress'd ; 
The slanderer to the slander'd ; foe to foe : 
He has cast Nature off, which was his shield, 
And Nature casts him off, who is her shame ; 
And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat 
Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold ; 
I ask not happy years ; nor memories 
Of tranquil childhood ; nor home-shelter'd love ; 
Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more ; 
But only my fair fame ; only one hoard 
Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate, 
Under the penury heap'd on me by thee. 
Or I will — God can imderstand and pardon : 
Why should I speak with man ? 



Be calm, dear friend. 

GIACOMO. 

Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. 

This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, 

Borrow'd the dowry of my wife from me. 

And then denied the loan ; and left me so 

In poverty, the which I sought to mend 

By holding a poor office in the state. 

It had been promised to me, and already 

I bought new clothing for my ragged babes. 

And my wife smiled ; and my heart knew repose ; 

When Cenci's intercession, as I found, 

Conferr'd this office on a wretch, whom thus 

He paid for vilest service. I return'd 

With this ill news, and we sate sad together 

Solacing our despondency with tears 

Of such affection and unbroken faith 

As temper life's worst bitterness ; when he 

As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, 

Mocking our poverty, and telling us 

Such was God's scourge for disobedient sons. 

And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame, 

I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coin'd 

A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted 

The sum in secret riot ; and he saw 

My wife was touch'd, and he went smiling forth. 

And when I knew the impression he had made, 

And felt my wife insult with silent scorn 

My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, 

I went forth too : but soon return'd again ; 

Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught 

My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried, 

" Give us clothes, father ! Give us better food ! 

What you in one night squander were enough 

For months ! " I look'd, and saw that home was hell 

And to that hell vdll I return no more 

Until mine enemy has render'd up 

Atonement, or, as he gave life to me, 

I will, reversing nature's law — 

ORSINO. 

Trust me. 
The compensation which thou seekest here 
Will be denied. 

GIACOMO. 

Then — Are you not my friend ? 
Did you not hint at the alternative, 
Upon the brink of which you see I stand, 



The other day when we conversed together ? 
My wrongs were then less. That word parricide, 
Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear. 

ORSINO. 

It must be fear itself, for the bare word 
Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God 
Draws to one point the threads of a just doom. 
So sanctifying it : what you devise 
Is, as it were, accomplish'd. 

GIACOMO. 

Is he dead ? 

ORSINO. 

His grave is ready. Know that since we met 
Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. 

GIACOMO. 

What outrage ? 

ORSINO. 

That she speaks not, but you may 
Conceive such half conjectures as I do, 
From her fix'd paleness, and the lofty grief 
Of her stern brow bent on the idle air. 
And her severe unmodulated voice, 
Drowning both tenderness and dread ; and last 
From this ; that whilst her stepmother and I, 
Bewilder'd in our horror, talk'd together 
With obscure hints ; both self misunderstood 
And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk, 
Over the truth, and yet to its revenge, 
She interrupted us, and with a look 
Which told before she spoke it, he must die. 

GIACOMO. 

It is enough. My doubts are well appeased ; 

There is a higher reason for the act 

Than mine ; there is a holier judge than me, 

A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, 

Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth 

Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised 

A living flower, but thou hast pitied it 

With needless tears ! Fair sister, thou in whom 

Men wonder'd how such loveliness and wisdom 

Did not destroy each other ! Is there made 

Ravage of thee ? O heart, I ask no more 

Justification ! Shall I wait, Orsino, 

Till he return, and stab him at the door t 

ORSINO. 

Not so ; some accident might interpose 
To rescue him from what is now most sure ; 
And you are unprovided where to fly. 
How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen : 
All is contrived ; success is so assured 
That^ 

Enter Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis my brother's voice ! Ye know me not ? 

GIACOMO. 

My sister, my lost sister ! 

BEATRICE. 

Lost indeed ! 
I see Orsino has talk'd with you, and 
That you conjecture things too horrible 
To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not, 
He might return : yet kiss me ; I shall know 
That tlien thou hast consented to his death. 
Farewell, farewell ? Let piety to God, 
311 



64 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Brotherly love, justice and clemency, 
And all things that make tender hardest hearts, 
Make thine hard, brother. Answer not — farewell. 
[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE n. 

A mean apartment in Giacomo's house. 

GiACOMO, ahne. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. 

[Thunder, and the sound of a storm. 
What ! can the everlasting elements 
Feel with a worm like man ? If so, the shaft 
Of mercy-winged lightning would not fall 
On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep : 
They are now living in unmeaning dreams : 
But I must wake, still doubting if that deed 
Be just which was most necessary. O, 
Thou unreplenish'd lamp ! whose narrow fire 
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge 
Devouring darkness hovers ! Thou small flame. 
Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls. 
Still flickerest up and down, how very soon, 
Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be 
As thou hadst never been ! So wastes and sinks 
Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine : 
But that no power can fill with vital oil 
That broken lamp of flesh. Ha ! 'tis the blood 
Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold : 
It is the form that moulded mine that sinks 
Into the white and yellow spasms of death : 
It is the soul by which mine was array'd 
In God's immortal likeness which now stands 
Naked before Heaven's judgment-seat ! 

[A bell strikes. 
One! Two! 
The hours crawl on ; and when my hairs are white 
My son will then perhaps be waiting thus. 
Tortured between just hate and vain remorse ; 
Chiding the tardy messenger of news 
Like those which I expect. I almost wish 
He be not dead, although my wrongs are great ; 
Yet — 'tis Orsino's step — 

Enter Orsino. 



ORSINO. 

I am come 
To say he has escaped. 

GIACOMO. 

Escaped ! 

ORSINO. 

And safe 
Within Petrella. He pass'd by the spot 
Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. 

GIACOMO. 

Are we the fools of such contingencies ? 

And do we waste in blind misgivings thus 

The hours when we should act ? Then wind and 
thunder. 

Which seem'd to howl his knell, is the loud laughter 

With which Heaven mocks our weakness ! I hence- 
forth 

Will ne'er repent of aught design'd or done 

But my repentance. 



ORSINO. 

See, the lamp is out. 

GIACOMO. 

If no remorse is ours when the dim air 
Has drunk this innocent flame, why should we quail 
When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits 
See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever? 
No, I am harden'd. 

ORSINO. 

Why, what need of this ? 
Who fear'd the pale intrusion of remorse 
In a just deed ? Although our first plan fail'd. 
Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. 
But hght the lamp ; let us not talk i' the dark. 

GIACOMO (lighting the lamp). 
And yet once quench'd I cannot thus relume 
My father's life : do you not think his ghost 
Might plead that argument with God ? 

ORSINO. 

Once gone, 
You cannot now recall your sister's peace ; 
Your own extinguish'd years of youth and hope ; 
Nor your wife's bitter words ; nor all the taunts 
Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes ; 
Nor your dead mother ; nor — 

GIACOMO. 

O, speak no more ! 
I am resolved, although this very hand 
Must quench the life that animated it 

ORSINO. 

There is no need of that. Listen : you know 

Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella 

In old Colonna's time ; him whom your father 

Degraded from his post ? And Marzio, 

That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year 

Of a reward of blood, well earn'd and due ? 

GIACOMO. 

I knew Olimpio ; and they say he hated 
Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage 
His lips grew white only to see him pass. 
Of Marzio I know nothing. 

orsino: 

Marzio's hate 
Matches Olimpio 's. I have sent these men, 
But in your name, and as at your request, 
To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. 

GIACOMO. 

Only to talk ? 

ORSINO. 

The moments, which even now 

Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour, 

May memorize their flight with death : ere then 

They must have talk'd, and may perhaps have done, 

And made an end. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen ! what sound is that ? 

ORSINO. 

The house-dog moans, and the beams crack : naught 
else. 

GIACOMO. 

It is my wife complaining in her sleep : 

I doubt not she is saying bitter things 

Of me ; and all my children round her dreaming 

That I deny them sustenance. 

ORSINO. 

Whilst he 
Who truly took it from them, and who fills 
312 



THE CENCI. 



65 



Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps 
Lapp'd in bad pleasures, and triumphantly 
Mocks thee in visions of successful hate 
Too like the truth of day. 

GIACOMO. 

If e'er he wakes 
Again, I will not trust to hireling hands. 

ORSINO. 

Why, that were well. I must be gone ; good night ! 
When next we meet — 

GIACOMO. 

May all be done — and all 
Forgotten.— Oh, that I had never been ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. 

Enter Cenci. 

CENCI. 

She comes not ; yet I left her even now 
Vanquish'd and faint. She knows the penalty 
Of her delay : yet what if threats are vain ? 
Am I not now within Petrella's moat ? 
Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome ? 
Might I not drag her by the golden hair ? 
Stamp on her ? Keep her sleepless till her brain 
Be overworn ? Tame her with chains and famine ? 
Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone 
What I most seek ! No, 't is her stubborn will, 
Which by its own consent shall stoop as low 
As that which drags it down. 

Enter Lucretia. 

Thou lothed wretch ! 
Hide thee from my abhorrence ! Fly, begone ! 
Yet stay ! Bid Beatrice come hither. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh, 
Husband ! I pray, for thine own wretched sake. 
Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee 
Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes. 
Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. 
And thou art old ; thy hairs are hoary gray : 
As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell, 
Pity thy daughter ; give her to some friend 
I In marriage : so that she may tempt thee not 
To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be. 

CENCI. 

What ! like her sister, who has found a home 
To mock my hate from with prosperity ? 
Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee, 
And all that yet remain. My death may be 
Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, 
Bid her come hither, and before my mood 
Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. 

LUCRETIA. 

She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence 
She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance ; 
And in that trance she heard a voice which said, 
" Cenci must die ! Let him confess himself! 
Even now the accusing Angel waits to hear 
2P 



If God, to punish his enormous crimes, 
Harden his dying heart ! " 

CENCI. 

Why — such things are — 
No doubt divine revealings may be made. 
'T is plain I have been favor'd from above, 
For when I cursed my sons, they died. — Ay — so — 
As to the right or wrong, that 's talk. Repentance — 
Repentance is an easy moment's work. 
And more depends on God than me. Well — well — 
I must give up the greater point, which was 
To poison and corrupt her soul. 

[A pause ; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and 
then shrinks back as he speaks. 

One, two ; 
Ay — Rocco and Cristofano my curse 
Strangled : and Giacomo, I think, will find 
Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave : 
Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, 
Die in despair, blaspheming : to Bernardo, 
He is so innocent, I will bequeath 
The memory of these deeds, and make his youth 
The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts 
Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. 
When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, 
I will pile up my silver and my gold ; 
My costly robes, paintings, and tapestries ; 
My parchments and all records of my wealth, 
And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave 
Of my possessions nothing but my name, 
Which shall be an inheritance to strip 
Its wearer bare as infamy. That done. 
My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign 
Into the hands of him who wielded it ; 
Be it for its own punishment or theirs. 
He will not ask it of me till the lash 
Be broken in its last and deepest wound ; 
Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, 
Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make 
Short work and sure. [Going. 

LUCRETIA {stops Mm). 

Oh, stay ! It was a feint : 
She had no vision, and she heard no voice. 
I said it but to awe thee. 

CENCI. 

That is well. 
Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, 
Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie ! 
For Beatrice worse terrors are in store 
To bend her to my will. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh I to what will ? 
What cruel sufierings more than she has known 
Canst thou inflict ? 

CENCI. 

Andrea ! go, call my daughter ; 
And if she comes not, tell her that I come. 
What sufferings ? I will drag her, step by step, 
Through infamies unheard of among men ; 
She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon 
Of public scorn, for acts blazon'd abroad. 
One among which shall be — What? Canst thou guess? 
She shall become (for what she most abhors 
Shall have a fascination to entrap 
Her lothing will), to her own conscious self 
All she appears to others ; and when dead, 
313 



66 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven, 
A rebel to her father and her God, 
Her corpse shall be abandon'd to the hounds ; 
Her name shall be the terror of the earth ; 
Her spirit shall approach the throne of God 
Plague-spotted with my curses. I will make 
Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. 

Enter Andrea. 



The lady Beatrice — 

CENCI. 

Speak, pale slave ! What 
Said she? 

ANDREA. 

My lord, 'twas what she look'd ; she said : 
Go tell my father that I see the gulf 
Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, 
I will not. [Exit Andrea. 

CENCI. 

Go thou quick, Lucretia, 
Tell her to come ; yet let her understand 
Her coming is consent : and say, moreover, 
That if she come not I will curse her. 

[Eadt Lucretia. 
Ha! 
With what but with a father's curse doth God 
Panic-strike arm'd victory, and make pale 
Cities in their prosperity ? The world's Father 
Must grant a parent's prayer against his child, 
Be he who asks even what men call me. 
Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers 
Awe her before I speak ? For I on them 
Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. 

Enter Lucretia. 

Well ; what ? Speak, wretch ! 

lucretia. 

She said, I cannot come ; 
Go tell my father that I see a torrent 
Of his own blood raging between us. 



God! 

Hear me ! If this most specious mass of flesh. 
Which thou hast made my daughter ; this my blood, 
This particle of my divided being ; 
Or rather, this my bane and my disease. 
Whose sight infects and poisons me ; this devil 
Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant 
To aught good use ; if her bright loveliness 
Was kindled to illumine this dark world ; 
If, nursed by thy selectest dew of love, 
Such virtues blossom in her as should make 
The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake, 
As thou the common God and Father art 
Of her, and me, and all ; reverse that doom ! 
Earth, in the name of God, let her food be 
Poison, imtil she be encrusted round 
With leprous stains ! Heaven, rain upon her head 
The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew, 
Till she be speckled Uke a toad ; parch up 
Those love-enkindling lips, warp those fine limbs 
To lothed lameness ! All-beholding sun. 
Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes 
With thine own blinding beams ! 



LUCRETIA. 

Peace! peace! 
For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. 
When high God grants he punishes such prayers. 

CENCI (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards 

Heaven). 
He does his will, I mine ! This in addition, 
That if she have a child — 

LUCRETIA. 

Horrible thought ! 

CENCI. 

That if she ever have a child ; and thou. 

Quick Nature ! I adjure thee by thy God, 

That thou be fruitful in her, and increase 

And multiply, fulfilling his command. 

And my deep imprecation ! May it be 

A hideous likeness of herself, that as 

From a distorting mirror, she may see 

Her image mix'd with what she most abhors, 

Smihng upon her from her nursing breast. 

And that the child may from its infancy 

Grow, day by day, more wdcked and deform'd. 

Turning her mother's love to misery ; 

And that both she and it may live until 

It shall repay her care and pain with hate, 

Or what may else be more unnatural, 

So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs 

Of the loud world to a dishonor'd grave. 

Shall I revoke this curse ? Go, bid her come, 

Before my words are chronicled in heaven. 

[Exit Lucretia. 
I do not feel as if I were a man. 
But like a fiend appointed to chastise 
The oflfences of some unremember'd world. 
My blood is running up and down my veins ; 
A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle ; 
I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe ; 
My heart is beating with an expectation 
Of horrid joy. 

Enter Lucretia. 
What? Speak! 

LUCRETIA. 

She bids thee curse ; 
And if thy curses, as they cannot do, 
Could kill her soul — 

CENCI. 

She would not come. 'T is well, 
I can do both : first take what I demand, 
And then extort concession. To thy chamber ! 
Fly ere I spurn thee : and beware this night 
That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer 
To come between the tiger and his prey. 

[Exit Lucretia. 
It must be late ; mine eyes grow weary dim 
With unaccustom'd heaviness of sleep. 
Conscience ! Oh ! thou most insolent of lies ! 
They say that sleep, that healing dew of heaven, 
Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain 
Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go 
First to belie thee with an hour of rest, 
Which will be deep and calm, I feel : and then— 
O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake 
Thine arches with the laughter of their joy ! 
There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven 
As o'er an angel fallen ; and upon Earth 
314 



THE CENCI. 



67 



A.11 good shall droop and sicken, and ill things 

Shall with a spirit of unnatural life 

Stir and be quicken'd — even as I am now. [Exit. 



SCENE II. 

Before the Castle of Petrella. 
Enter Beatrice and Lucretia above on the ramparts. 

BEATRICE. 

They come not yet. 

LUCRETIA. 

'Tis scarce midnight. 

BEATRICE. 

How slow 
Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed. 
Lags leaden-footed time ! 

LUCRETIA. 

The minutes pass — 
If he should wake before the deed is done ? 

BEATRICE. 

O, mother ! He must never wake again. 
What thou hast said persuades me that our act 
Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell 
Out of a human form. 

LUCRiSTIA. 

'Tis true he spoke 
Of death and judgment with strange confidence 
For one so wicked ; as a man believing 
In God, yet recking not of good or ill. 
And yet to die without confession ! 

BEATRICE. 

Oh! 
Believe that Heaven is merciful and just. 
And will not add our dread necessity 
To the amount of his offences. 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio, below. 

LUCRETIA. 

See, 
They come. 

BEATRICE. 

All mortal things must hasten thus 
To their dark end. Let us go down. 

[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice /row above. 

OLIMPIO. 

How feel you to this work ? 

MARZIO. 

As one who thinks 
A thousand crowns excellent market price 
For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. 

OLIMPIO. 

It is the white reflection of your own, 
Which you call pale. 

MARZIO. 

Is that their natural hue ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Or 'tis my hate and the deferr'd desire 

To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. 

MARZIO. 

You are inclined then to this business ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Ay. 

If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns 
To kill a serpent which had stung my child, 
I could not be more willing. 



Enter Beatrice and Lucretia, below. 
Noble ladies ! 

BEATRICE. 

Are ye resolved ? 

OLIMPIO. 

Is he asleep. 

MARZIO. 

Is all 

Quiet? 

LUCRETIA. 

I mix'd an opiate v\rith his drink : 
He sleeps so soundly — 

BEATRICE. 

That his death will be 
But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, 
A dark continuance of the Hell within him, 
Which God extinguish ! But ye are resolved ? 
Ye know it is a high and holy deed ? 

OLIMPIO. 

We are resolved. 

MARZIO. 

As to the how this act 
Be warranted, it rests with you. 

BEATRICE. 

Well, follow ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Hush ! Hark ! What noise is that ? 

MARZIO. 

Ha! some one comes! 

BEATRICE. 

Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest 
Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate. 
Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, 
That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow ! 
And be your steps like mine, light, quick, and bold ! 

[Exeunt, 



SCENE m. 

An Apartment in the Castle. 

Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. 

LUCRETIA. 

They are about it now. 

BEATRICE. 

Nay, it is done. 

LUCRETIA. 

I have not heard him groan. 

BEATRICE. 

He will not groan. 

LUCRETIA. 

What sound is that ? 

BEATRICE. 

List! 'tis the tread of feet 
About his bed. 

LUCRETIA. 

My God ! 
If he be now a cold stiff corpse — 

BEATRICE. 

O, fear not 

What may be done, but what is left undone : 
The act seals all. 

Enter Olimpio and Marzio. 
Is it accomplish'd ? 
315 



68 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Did you not call 



MARZIO. 
OLIMPIO. 



BEATRICE. 

When? 



OLIMPIO. 

Now. 



What? 



BEATRICE. 

I ask if all is over? 

OLIMPIO. 

We dare not kill an old and sleeping man ; 
His thin gray hair, his stem and reverent brow, 
His veined hands cross'd on his heaving breast, 
And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, 
Quell'd me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. 

MARZIO. 

But I was bolder ; for I chid Olimpio, 
And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave, 
And leave me the reward. And now my knife 
Touch'd the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man 
Stirr'd in his sleep, and said, " God ! hear O, hear, 
A father's curse ! What, art thou not our father ? " 
And then he laugh'd. I knew it was the ghost 
Of my dead father speaking through his lips. 
And could not kill him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable slaves ! 
Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, 
Found ye the boldness to return to me 
With such a deed undone ? Base palterers ! 
Cowards and traitors ! Why, the very conscience 
Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge 
Is an equivocation : it sleeps over 
A thousand daily acts disgracing men ; 
And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven — 
Why do I talk? 

[Snatching a dagger from one of them and 
raising it. 
Hadst thou a tongue to say, 
She murder'd her own father, I must do it ! 
But never dream ye shall outlive him long ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Stop, for God's sake ! 

MARZIO. 

I will go back and kill him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give me the weapon : we must do thy will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take it ! Depart ! Return ! 

[Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. 
How pale thou art ! 
We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime 
To leave undone. 

LUCRETIA. 

Would it were done! 

BEATRICE. 

Even whilst 
That doubt is passing through your mind, the world 
Is conscious of a change. Darkness and hell 
Have swallow'd up the vapor they sent forth 
To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath 
Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood 
Runs freely through my veins. Hark ! 



Enter Olimpio and .Marzio. 

He is — 

OLIMPIO. 

Dead' 

MARZIO. 

We strangled him, that there might be no blood ; 
And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden 
Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. 

BEATRICE (giving them a hag of coin). 
Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. 
And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed 
By that which made me tremble, wear thou this ! 

[Clothes him in a rich mantle. 
It was the mantle which my grandfather 
Wore in his high prosperity, and men 
Envied his state : so may they envy thine. 
Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God 
To a just use. Long live and thrive ! And, mark, 
If thou hast crimes, repent : this deed is none. 

[A horn is sounded. 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark, 't is the castle horn : my God ! it sounds 
Like the last trump. 

BEATRICE. 

Some tedious guest is coming. 

LUCRETIA. 

The drawbridge is let down ; there is a tramp 
Of horses in the court ; fly, hide yourselves ! 

[Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio* 

BEATRICE. 

Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest ; 

I scarcely need to counterfeit it now : 

The spirit which doth reign vidthin these limbs 

Seems strangely undisturb'd. I could even sleep 

Fearless and calm : all ill is surely past. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 



Another apartment in the Castle. 

Enter on one side the Legate Savella introduced hy 
a Servant, and on the other Lucretia and Ber 

NARDO. 

savella. 
Lady, my duty to his Holiness 
Be my excuse, that thus unseasonably 
I break upon your rest. I must speak with 
Count Cenci ,• doth he sleep ? 

LUCRETIA {in a hurried and confused manneii 
I think he sleeps^ 
Yet wake him not ; I pray, spare me awhile, 
He is a wicked and a wrathful man ; 
Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, , 
Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams. 
It were not well ; indeed it were not well. j 

Wait till day-break.— ! 

(Aside). O, I am deadly sick! \ 

savella. 
I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count 
Must answer charges of the gravest import, 
And suddenly ; such my commission is. 

LUCRETIA (with increased agitation). 
I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare — 
'T were perilous ; — you might as safely waken 
316 






THE CENCI. 



A serpent ; or a corpse in which some fiend 
Were laid to sleep. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady, ray moments here 
Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, 
Since none else dare. 

LUCRETIA (aside). 

O, terror ! O, despair ! 
{To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord 

Legate to 
Your father's chamber. 

[Exeunt Savklla and Bernardo. 

Enter Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis a messenger 
Come to arrest the culprit who now stands 
Before the throne of unappealable God. 
Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, 
Acquit our deed. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh, agony of fear ! 
Would that he yet might live ! Even now I heard 
The legate's followers whisper as they pass'd 
They had a warrant for his instant death. 
All was prepared by unforbidden means 
Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 
Even now they search the tower, and find the body; 
Now they suspect the truth; now they consult 
Before they come to tax us with the fact ; 
O, horrible, 'tis all disco ver'd ! 

BEATRICE. 

Mother, 
What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold 
As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child 
To fear that others know what thou hast done, 
Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus 
Write on unsteady eyes and alter'd cheeks 
All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, 
And fear no other witness but thy fear. 
For if, as carmot be, some circumstance 
Should rise in accusation, we can blind 
Suspicion with such cheap astonishment. 
Or overbear it with such guiltless pride. 
As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, 
And what may follow now regards not me. 
I am as universal as the light ; 
Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm 
As the world's centre. Consequence, to me. 
Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock 
But shakes it not. 

[A cry within and tumuli 

BERNARDO. 

Murder! Murder! Murder! 

Enter Bernardo and Savella. 

SAVELLA {to his followers). 
Go, search the castle round ; sound the alarm ; 
Look to the gates that none escape ! 



/ What now ? 

BERNARDO. 

I know not what to say — my father's dead. 

BEATRICE. 

How, dead ! he only sleeps ; you mistake, brother. 
His sleep is very calm, very like death ; 



'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. 
He is not dead ? 

BERNARDO. 

Dead; murdered. 

LUCRETIA (with extreme agitation). 

Oh, no, no, 
He is not murder'd, though he may be dead; 
I have alone the keys of those apartments. 

savella. 
Ha! Is it so? 

BEATRICE. 

My lord, I pray excuse us ; 
We will retire ; my mother is not well : 
She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. 
[Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice, 

SAVELLA. 

Can you suspect who may have murder'd him ? 

BERNARDO. 

I know not what to think. 

SAVELLA. 

Can you name any 
Who had an interest in his death ? 



BERNARDO. 



Alas! 



I can name none who had not, and those most 
Who most lament that such a deed is done ; 
My mother, and my sister, and myself 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. 
I found the old man's body in the moonlight. 
Hanging beneath the window of his chamber 
Among the branches of a pine : he could not 
Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heap'd 
And effortless; 'tis true there was no blood. — 
Favor me. Sir — it much imports your house 
That all should be made clear — to tell the ladies 
That I request their presence. 

[Exit Bernardo. 

Enter Guards, bringing in Marzio. 

guard. 

We have one. 

officer. 
My lord, we found this ruffian and another 
Lurking among the rocks ; there is no doubt 
But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci : 
Each had a bag of coin ; this fellow wore 
A gold-inwoven robe, which, shining bright 
Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon, 
Betray'd them to our notice : the other fell 
Desperately fighting. 

SAVELLA. 

What does he confess? 

OFFICER. 

He keeps firm silence ; but these lines found on him 
May speak. 

SAVELLA. 

. Their language is at least sincere. 

[Reads 

" To THE LADY BEATRICE. 

" That the atonement of what my nature 
Sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, 
I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those 
Who will speak and do more than I dare 
Write.— Thy devoted servant, Orsino." 

317 



70 



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Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardq. 
Knowest thou this writing, lady ? 

BEATRICE. 

No. 

SAVELLA. 

Nor thou ? 
LUCRETIA (Jier conduct throughout the scene is marked 

by extreme agitation). 
Where was it found ? What is it ? It should be 
Orsino's hand ! It speaks of that strange horror 
Which never yet found utterance, but which made 
Between that hapless child and her dead father 
A gulf of obscure hatred. 

SAVELLA. 

Is it so I 
Is it true, lady, that thy father did 
Such outrages as to awaken in thee 
Unfilial hate. 

BEATRICE. 

Not hate, 'twas more than hate ; 
This is most true, yet wherefore question me ? 

SAVELLA. 

There is a deed demanding question done ; 
Thou hast a secret which will answer not. 

BEATRICE. 

What sayest? My lord, your words are bold and rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I do arrest all present in the name 

Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome. 

LUCRETIA. 

O, not to Rome ! Indeed we are not guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? My lord, 

I am more innocent of parricide 

Than is a child born fatherless — Dear mother, 

Your gentleness and patience are no shield 

For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, 

Which seems, but is not. What ! will human laws. 

Rather will ye who are their ministers. 

Bar all access to retribution first. 

And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do 

What ye neglect, arming familiar things 

To the redress of an unwonted crime, 

Make ye the victims who demanded it 

Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch 

Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, 

If it be true he murder'd Cenci, was 

A sword in the right hand of justest God. 

Wherefore should I have wielded it ? unless 

The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name, 

God therefore scruples to avenge. 



You own 



That you desired his death ? 



BEATRICE. 

It would have been 
A crime no less than his, if for one moment 
That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray. 
Ay, I even knew — for God is wise and just. 
That some strange sudden death hung over him. 
•Tis true that this did happen, and most true 
There was no other rest for me on earth, 
No other hope in Heaven — now what of this ? 



SAVELLA. 

Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are 

both. 
I judge thee not. 

BEATRICE. 

And yet, if you arrest me, 
You are the judge and executioner 
Of that which is the life of life: the breath 
Of accusation kills an innocent name, 
And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, 
Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false 
That I am guilty of foul parricide ; 
Although I must rejoice, for justest cause. 
That other hands have sent my father's soul 
To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
Now leave us free : stain not a noble house 
With vague surmises of rejected crime ; 
Add to our sufferings and your own neglect 
No heavier sum; let them have been enough: 
Leave us the wreck we have. 

SAVELLA. 

I dare not, lady. 
I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome : 
There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. 

LUCRETIA. 

0, not to Rome ! 0, lake us not to Rome ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why not to Rome, dear mother? There, as here, 

Our innocence is as an armed heel 

To trample accusation. God is there 

As here, and with his shadow ever clothes 

The innocent, the injured, and the weak; 

And such are we. Cheer up, dear lady, lean 

On me ; collect your wandering thoughts. My lord. 

As soon as you have taken some refreshment, 

And had all such examinations made 

Upon the spot, as may be necessary 

To the full imderstanding of this matter, 

We shall be ready. Mother ; will you come ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Ha ! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest 
Self-accusation from our agony ! 
Will Giacomo be there ? Orsino ? Marzio ? 
All present ; all confronted ; all demanding 
Each from the other's countenance the thing 
Which is in every heart ! O, misery ! 

[She faints, and is borne out. 

SAVELLA. 

She faints : an ill appearance this. 

BEATRICE. 

My lord. 
She knows not yet the uses of the world. 
She fears that power is as a beast which grasps 
And loosens not : a snake whose look transmutes 
All things to guilt which is its nutriment. 
She cannot know how well the supine slaves 
Of blind authority read the truth of things 
When written on a brow of guilelessness : 
She sees not yet triumphant Innocence 
Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal man, 
A judge and an accuser of the wrong 
Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my lord ; 
Our suite will join yours in the court below. 

[Exeunt. 
318 



THE CENCI. 



71 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. 

Enter Orsino and Giacomo. 

GIACOMO. 

Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end ? 

O, that the vain remorse which must chastise 

Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn 

As its keen sting is mortal to avenge ! 

O, that the hour when present had cast off 

The mantle of its mystery, and shown 

The ghastly form with which it now returns 

When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds 

Of conscience to their prey ! Alas ! alas ! 

It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, 

To kill an old and hoary-headed father. 

ORSINO. 

It has turn'd out unluckily, in truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To violate the sacred doors of sleep ; 
To cheat kind Nature of the placid death 
Which she prepares for over-wearied age ; 
To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul. 
Which might have quench'd in reconciling prayers 
A hfe of burning crimes — 

ORSINO. 

You cannot say 
I urged you to the deed. 

GIACOMO. 

O, had I never 
Found in thy smooth and ready countenance 
The mirror of my darkest thoughts ; hadst thou 
Never with hints and questions made me look 
Upon the monster of my thought, until 
It grew famihar to desire — 

ORSINO. 

'Tis thus 
Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts 
Upon the abettors of their own resolve. 
Or any thing but their weak, guilty selves. 
And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril 
In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness 
Of penitence ; confess, 'tis fear disguised 
From its own shame that takes the mantle now 
Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe ? 

GIACOMO. 

\ How can that be ? Already Beatrice, 
Lucretia, and the murderer, are in prison. 
I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak. 
Sent to arrest us. 

ORSINO. 

I have all prepared 
Foi mstant flight. We can escape even now, 
So we take fleet occasion by the hair. 

GIACOMO. 

Rallier expire in tortures, as I may. 

What ! will you cast by self-accusing flight 

Assured conviction upon Beatrice ? 

She, who alone in this lumatural work. 

Stands like God's angel minister'd upon 

By fiends ; avenging such a nameless wrong 

As turns black parricide to piety ,• 



Whilst we for basest ends — I fear, Orsino, 

While I consider all your words and looks. 

Comparing them with your proposal now. 

That you must be a villain. For what end 

Could you engage in such a perilous crime. 

Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles. 

Even to this gulf? Thou art no bar : No, 

Thou art a lie ! traitor and murderer ! 

Coward and slave ! But, no — defend thyself; {Drawing. 

Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue 

Disdains to brand thee with. 

ORSINO. 

Put up your weapon. 
Is it the desperation of your fear 
Makes you thus rash and sudden with your friend, 
Now ruin'd for your sake ? If honest anger 
Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed 
Was but to try you. As for me, I think, 
Thankless affection led me to this point. 
From which, if my firm temper could repent, 
I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak. 
The ministers of justice wait below : 
They grant me these brief moments. Now, if you 
Have any word of melancholy comfort 
To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass 
Out at the postern, and avoid them so. 

GIACOMO. 

Oh, generous friend ! How canst thou pardon me ? 
Would that my life could purchase thine ! 

ORSINO. 

That vdsh 
Now comes a day too late. Haste ; fare thee well ! 
Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor ? 

[Exit Giacomo 
I 'm sorry for it ; but the guards are waiting 
At his own gate, and such was my contrivance 
That I might rid me both of him and them. 
I thought to act a solemn comedy 
Upon the painted scene of this new world. 
And to attain my owoi peculiar ends 
By some such plot of mingled good and ill 
As others weave ; but there arose a Power 
Which grasp'd and snapp'd the threads of my device. 
And turn'd it to a net of ruin — Ha ! 

[A shout is heard. 
Is that my name I hear proclaim'd abroad ? 
But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise ; 
Rags on my back, and a false innocence 
Upon my face, through the misdeeming crowd 
Which judges by what seems. 'T is easy then 
For a new name and for a country new. 
And a new life, fashion'd on old desires, 
To change the honors of abandon'd Rome. 
And these must be the masks of that within, 
Which must remain unalter'd. — Oh, I fear 
That what is pass'd vdll never let me rest ! 
Why, when none else is conscious, but myself. 
Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt 
Trouble me ? Have I not the power to fly 
My own reproaches ? Shall I be the slave 
Of — what? A word? which those of this false world 
Employ against each other, not themselves ,• 
As men wear daggers not for self-offence. 
But if I am mistaken, where shall I 
Find the disguise to hide me from myself. 
As now I skulk from every other eye ? {Exit. 

319 



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SCENE II. 
A Hall of Justice. 



Camillo, Judges, etc., are discovered seated; Marzio 
is led in. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Accused, do you persist in your denial I 

I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty ? 

I demand who were the participators 

In your offence ? Speak truth, and the whole truth. 

MARZIO. 

My God ! I did not kill him ; I know nothing ; 
Olimpio sold the robe to me from which 
You would infer my guilt. 

SECOND JUDGE. 

Away with him ! 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss, 
Speak false ? Is it so soft a questioner. 
That you would bandy lover's talk with it. 
Till it wind out your hfe and soul ? Away ! 

MARZIO. 

Spare me ! O, spare ! I will confess. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Then speak. 

MARZIO. 

I strangled him in his sleep. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

Who urged you to it ? 

MARZIO. 

His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate 
Orsiao sent me to Petrella ; there 
The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia 
Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I 
And my companion forthwith murder'd him. 
Now let me die. 

FIRST JUDGE. 

This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, 
Lead forth the prisoners ! 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded. 

Look upon this man ; 
When did you see him last? 

BEATRICE. 

We never saw him. 

MARZIO. 

You know me too well. Lady Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

I know thee ! How ? where ? when ? 

MARZIO. 

You know 'twas I 
Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes 
To kill your father. When the thing was done, 
You clothed me in a robe of woven gold 
And bade me thrive : how I have thriven, you see. 
You, my lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, 
You know that what I speak is true. 

[Beatrice advances towards him ; he covers his 
face, and shrinks back. 

Oh, dart 
The terrible resentment of those eyes 
On the dread earth ! Turn them away from me ! 
They wound : 'twas torture forced the truth. My lords. 
Having said this, let me be led to death. 



BEATRICE. 

Poor wretch ! I pity thee : yet stay awhile. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards, lead him not away. 

BEATRICE. 

Cardinal Camillo, 
You have a good repute for gentleness 
And wisdom : can it be that you sit here 
To countenance a wicked farce like this ? 
When some obscure and trembling slave is dragg'd 
From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart, 
And bade to answer, not as he believes. 
But as those may suspect or do desire. 
Whose questions thence suggest their own reply : 
And that in peril of such hideous torments 
As merciful God spares even the damn'd. Speak now 
The thing you surely know, which is that you, 
If your fine frame were stretch'd upon that wheel. 
And you were told, Confess that you did poison 
Your little nephew : that fair blue-eyed child 
Who was the load-star of your life ; and though 
All see, since his most swift and piteous death, 
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time. 
And all things hoped for or done therein 
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, 
Yet you would say, I confess any thing — 
And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, 
The refuge of dishonorable death. 
I pray thee. Cardinal, that thou assert 
My innocence. 

CAMILLO {much moved). 
What shall we think, my lords ? 
Shame on these tears ! I thought the heart was frozen 
Which is their fountain. I would pledge ray soul 
That she is guiltless. 

JUDGE. 

Yet she must be tortured. 

CAMILLO. 

I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew 
(If he now lived, he would be just her age ; 
His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes 
Like hers in shape, but blue, and not so deep) : 
As that most perfect image of God's love 
That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. 
She is as pure as speechless infancy ! 

JUDGE. 

Well, be her purity on your head, my lord. 
If you forbid the rack. His Holiness 
Enjoin'd us to pursue this monstroas crime 
By the severest forms of law ; na^even 
To stretch a point against the criminals. 
The prisoners stand accused of parricide, 
Upon such evidence as justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE, 

What evidence ? This man's ? 

JUDGE. 

Even so. 

BEATRICE {to MaRZIO). 

Come near. And who art thou, thus chosen forth 
Out of the multitude of Uving men 
To kill the innocent ? 



MARZIO. 

I am Marzio, 



Thy father's vassal. 



THE CENCI. 



73 



BEATRICE. 

Fix thine eyes on mine ; 
Answer to what I ask. [Turning to the Judges. 

I prithee mark 
His countenance : unhke bold calumny 
Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, 
He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends 
His gaze on the blind earth. 

( To Marzio.) What ! wilt thou say 
That I did murder my own father ? 

MARZIO. 

Oh! 
Spare me ! My brain swims round — I cannot speak — 
It was that horrid torture forced the truth. 
Take me away! Let her not look on me ! 
I am a guilty miserable wretch ,' 
I have said all I know ; now, let me die ! 

BEATRICE. 

My lords, if by my nature I had been 

So stern, as to have plann'd the crime alleged. 

Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, 

And the rack makes him utter, do you think 

1 should have left this two-edged instrument 

Of my misdeed ; this man, this bloody knife 

With my own name engraven on the heft, 

Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, 

For my own death ? That with such horrible need 

For deepest silence, I should have neglected 

So trivial a precaution, as the making 

His tomb the keeper of a secret written 

On a thief's memory ? What is his poor life ? 

What are a thousand lives ? A parricide 

Had trampled them like dust ; and see, he lives ! 

[Turning to Marzio. 
And thou — 

MARZIO. 

Oh, spare me ! Speak to me no more ! 
That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, 
Wound worse than torture. 

{To the Judges). I have told it all ; ' 
For pity's sake, lead me away to death. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards, lead him nearer thfe lady Beatrice : 
He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf 
From the keen breath of the serenest north. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh, thou who tremblest on the giddy verge 
Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me ; 
So mayest thou answer God with less dismay : 
What evil have we done thee ? I, alas ! 
Have lived but on this earth a few sad years. 
And so my lot was order'd that a father 
First tum'd the moments of awakening life 
To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope ; and then 
Stabb'd with one blow my everlasting soul ; 
And my untainted fame ; and even that peace 
Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart. 
But the wound was not mortal ; so my hate 
Became the only worship I could lift 
To our great Father, who in pity and love, 
Arm'd thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; 
And thus his wrong becomes my accusation : 
And art thou the accuser ? If thou hopest 
Mercy in Heaven, show justice upon earth : 
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. 
If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path 
2Q 



Over the trampled laws of God and man, 

Rush not before thy Judge, and say : " My Maker, 

I have done this and more ; for there was one 

Who was most pure and innocent on earth ; 

And because she endured what never any 

Guilty or innocent endured before ; 

Because her wrongs could not be told, nor thought , 

Because thy hand at length did rescue her ; 

I with my words kill'd her and all her kin." 

Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay 

The reverence living in the minds of men 

Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame ! 

Think what it is to strangle infant pity. 

Cradled in the belief of guileless looks. 

Till it become a crime to suffer. Think 

What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood 

All that which shows like innocence, and is. 

Hear me, great God ! I swear, most innocent, 

So that the world lose all discrimination 

Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, 

And that which now compels thee to reply 

To what I ask : Am I, or am I not 

A parricide ? 

MARZIO. 

Thou art not ! 

JUDGE. 

What is this ? 

MARZIO. 

I here declare those whom I did accuse 
Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. 

JUDGE. 

Drag him away to torments ; let them be 
Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds 
Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not 
Till he confess. 

MARZIO. 

Torture me as ye will : 
A keener pain has wrung a higher truth 
From my last breath. She is most innocent ! 
Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me! 
I will not give you that fine piece of nature 
To rend and ruin. 

[Exit Marzio, guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What say ye now, my lords ? 

JUDGE. 

Let tortures strain the truth till it be white 
As snow thrice-sifted by the frozen wind. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet stain'd with blood. 

JUDGE (to Beatrice). 

Know you this paper, lady ? 

BEATRICE. 

Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here 
As my accuser ? Ha ! wilt thou be he. 
Who art my judge ? Accuser, witness, judge. 
What, all in one ? Here is Orsino's name ; 
Where is Orsino ? Let his eye meet mine. 
What means this scrawl ? Alas ! ye know not what, 
And therefore on the chance that it may be 
Some evil, will ye kill us ? 

Enter an Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Marzio 's dead. 
321 



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JUDGE. 

What did he say ? 

OFFICER. 

Nothing. As soon as we 
Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, 
As one who baffles a deep adversary; 
And holding his breath, died. 

JUDGE. 

There remains nothing 
But to apply the question to those prisoners, 
Who yet remain stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I overrule 
Further proceedings, and in the behalf 
Of these most innocent and noble persons 
Will use my interest with the Holy Father. 

JUDGE. 

Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile 

Conduct these culprits each to separate cells ; 

And be the engines ready : for this night, 

If the Pope's resolution be as grave, 

Pious and just as once, I '11 wring the truth 

Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

The Cell of a Prison. 

Beatrice is discovered asleep on a couch. 

Enter Bernardo. 

BERNARDO. 

How gently slumber rests upon her face ! 

Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent 

Closmg in night and dreams, and so prolong'd. 

After such torments as she bore last night. 

How light and soft her breathing comes ! Ah, me ! 

Mothinks that I shall never sleep again. 

But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest 

From this sweet folded flower, thus — wake! awake! 

What, sister, canst thou sleep? 

BEATRICE ( awaking). 

I was just dreaming 
That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest 
This cell seems like a kind of Paradise 
After our father's presence. 

BERNARDO. 

Dear, dear sister. 
Would that thy dream were not a dream ! O, God ! 
How shall I tell ? 

BEATRICE. 

What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother ? 

BERNARDO. 

Look not so calm and happy, or, even whilst 
I stand considering what I have to say, 
My heart will break. 

BEATRICE. 

See now, thou makest me weep : 
How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child. 
If I were dead ! Say what thou hast to say. 

BERNARDO. 

They have confess'd ; they could endure no more 
The tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Ha ! What was there to confess ? 
They must have told some weak and wicked lie 



To flatter their tormentors. Have they said 
That they were guilty ? O white Innocence ! 
That thou should st wear the mask of guilt to hide 
Thine awful and serenest countenance 
From those who know thee not ! 

Enier Judge with Lucretia and Giacomo, guarded. 

Ignoble hearts ! 
For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least 
As mortal as the limbs through which they pass. 
Are centuries of high splendor laid in dust ? 
And that eternal honor which should live 
Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame. 
Changed to a mockery and a byword ? What ! 
Will you give up these bodies to be dragg'd 
At horses' heels, so that our hair should sweep 
The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, 
Who, that they may make our calamity 
Their worship and their spectacle, will leave 
The churches and the theatres as void 
As their own hearts ? Shall the light multitude 
Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity. 
Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse. 
Upon us as we pass to pass away. 
And leave — what memory of our having been ? 
Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou. 
Who wert a mother to the parentless. 
Kill not thy child ! Let not her wrongs kill thee ! 
Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, 
And let us each be silent as a corpse ; 
It soon \n\\ be as soft as any grave. 
'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear 
Makes the rack cruel. 

GIACOMO. 

They will tear the truth 
Even from thee at last, those cruel pains : 
For pity 's sake, say thou art guilty now. 

LUCRETIA. 

O, speak the truth ! Let us all quickly die ; 
And after death, God is our judgej not they ; 
He will have mercy on us. 

BERNARDO. 

If indeed 
It can be true, say so, dear sister mine ; 
And then. the Pope will surely pardon you, 
And all be well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess, or I will warp 
Your limbs with such keen tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures! Turn 
The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel ! 
Torture your dog, that he may tell when last 
He lapp'd the blood his master shed — not me ! 
My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart. 
And of the soul ; ay, of the inmost soul, 
Which weeps within tears as of burning gall 
To see, in this ill world where none are true, 
My kindred false to their deserted selves. 
And with considering all the wretched hfe 
Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, 
And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth 
To me or mine ; and what a tyrant thou art. 
And what slaves these ; and what a world we make. 
The oppressor and the oppress'd — such pangs compel 
My answer. Wliat is it thou wouldst with me ? 
^ 322 



THE CENCI. 



75 



JUDGE. 

Art thou not guilty of thy father's death ? 

BEATRICE. 

Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging Gpd 

That he permitted such an act as that 

Which I have sufFer'd, and which he beheld ; 

Made it unutterable, and took from it 

All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, 

But that which thou hast call'd my father's death ? 

Which is or is not what men call a crime. 

Which either I have done, or have not done ; 

Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. 

If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, 

And so an end of all. Now do your will ; 

]No other pains shall force another word. 

JUDGE. 

She is convicted, but has not confess'd. 

Be it enough. Until their final sentence 

Let none have converse with them. You, young lord, 

Linger not here ! 

BEATRICE. 

O, tear him not away ! 

JUDGE. 

Guards ! do your duty. 

BERNARDO {embracing Beatrice). 

Oh ! would ye divide 
Body from soul ? 

OFFICER. 

That is the headsman's business. 
[Exeuid all hut Lucretia, Beatrice and Giacomo 

GIACOMO. 

Have T confess'd ? Is it all over now ? 

No hope ! No refuge ! O, weak, wicked tongue 

Which hast destroy'd me, would that thou hadst been 

Cut out and thrown to dogs first ! To have kill'd 

My father first, and then betray'd my sister ; 

Ay, thee ! the one thing innocent and pure 

In this black guilty world, to that which I 

So well deserve ! My wife ! my little ones ! 

Destitute, helpless ; and I — Father ! God ! 

Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving. 

When their full hearts break thus, thus ! — 

{Covers his face and weeps. 

LUCRETIA. 

O, my child 
To what a dreadful end are we all come ! 
Why did I yield ? Why did I not sustain 
Those torments ? Oh ! that I were all dissolved 
Into these fast and unavailing tears, 
Which flow and feel not ! 

BEATRICE. 

What 'twas weak to do, 
'Tis weaker to lament, once being done ; 
Take cheer ! The God who knew my wrong, and 

made 
Our speedy act the angel of his wrath. 
Seems, and but seems to have abandon'd us. 
Let us not think that we shall die for this. 
Brother, sit near me ; give me your firm hand. 
You had a manly heart. Bear up ! bear up ! 
Oh ! dearest Lady, put your gentle head 
Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile : 
Your eyes look pale, hollow, and overworn. 
With heaviness of watching and slow grief 
Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, 
Not cheerful, nor yet sad ; some dull old thing, 
Some outworn and unused old monotony, 



Such as our country gossips sing and spin, 
Till they almost forget they live : lie down ! 
So, that vdll do. Have I forgot the words ? 
Faith ! they are sadder than I thought they were 

SONG. 

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
When my life is laid asleep ? 
Little cares for a smile or a tear, 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier ! 

Farewell ! Heigh ho ! 

What is this whisper low ? 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet Sleep ! were Death like to thee, 
Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
I would close these eyes of pain ; 
When to wake ? Never again. 

O World ! farewell ! . 

Listen to the passing bell! 
It says, thou and I must part. 
With a light and a heavy heart. 

[The scK.ne closes. 



SCENE IV. 



A Hall of the Prism. 
Enter Camillo and Bernardo. 

CAMILLO. 

The Pope is stem ; not to be moved or bent. 

He look'd as calm and keen as is the engine 

Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself 

From aught that it inflicts ; a marble form, 

A rite, a law, a custom : not a man. 

He frown'd, as if to frown had been the trick 

Of his rhachinery, on the advocates 

Presenting the defences, which he tore 

And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice ; 

" Which among ye defended their old father 

Kill'd in his sleep?" Then to another: "Thou 

Dost this in virtue of thy place ; 'tis well." 

He tum'd to me then, looking deprecation, 

And said these three words, coldly : " They must die." 

BERNARDO. 

And yet you left him not ? 

CAMILLO. 

I urged him still ; 
Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong 
Which prompted your unnatural parent's death: 
And he replied, " Paolo Santa Croce 
Murder'd his mother yester-evening. 
And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife 
That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young 
Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. 
Authority, and power, and hoary hair 
Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, 
You come to ask their pardon ; stay a moment ; 
Here is their sentence ; never see me more 
Till, to the letter, it be all fulfill'd." 

BERNARDO. 

O, God, not SO ! I did believe indeed 
That all you said was but sad preparation 
For happy news. O, there are words and looks 
To bend the sternest purpose ! Once I knew them, 
323 



76 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now I forget them at my dearest need. 

What think you if I seek him out, and bathe 

His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears ? 

Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain 

With my perpetual cries, until in rage 

He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample 

Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood 

May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, 

And remorse waken mercy ? I will do it ! 

O, wait till I return ! [Rushes out. 

CAMILLO. 

Alas ! poor boy ! 
A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray 
To the deaf sea. 

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice and Giacomo, guarded. 

BEATRICE. 

I hardly dare to fear > 

That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon. 

CAMILLO. 

May God in heaven be less inexorable 

To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. 

Here is the sentence and the warrant. 



BEATRICE (wUdly). 



Oh, 



My God ! Can it be possible I have 

To die so suddenly ! So young to go 

Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground ! 

To be nail'd down into a narrow place ; 

To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more 

Blithe voice of living thing ; muse not again 

Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost. 

How fearful ! to be nothing ! or to be — 

What ? O, where am T ? Let me not go mad ! 

Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts ! if there 

should be 
No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world ; 
The wide, gray, lampless, deep unpeopled world ! 
If all things then should be — my father's spirit 
His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me ; 
The atmosphere and breath of my dead life ! 
If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, 
Even the form which tortured me on earth, 
Mask'd in gray haii-s and wrinkles, he should come 
And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix 
His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down ! 
For was he not alone omnipotent 
On Earth, and ever present ? even though dead. 
Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, 
And work for me and mine still the same ruin, 
Scorn, pain, despair ? Who ever yet return'd 
To teach the laws of death's untrodden realm ? 
Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, 
O, whither, whither ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust in God's sweet love, 
The tender promises of Christ : ere night 
Think we shall be in Paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis past! 
Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. 
And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill : 
How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I 
Have met with much injustice in this world ; 
No difference has been made by God or man. 
Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 
'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. 



I am cut off from the only world I know, 

From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. 

You do well telling me to trust in God, 

I hope I do trust in him. In whom else 

Can any trust ? And yet my heart is cold. 

[During the latter speeches Giacomo ?ias retired 

conversing with Camillo, who now goes out j 

Giacomo advances. 

GIACOxMO. 

Know you not, Mother — Sister, know you not ? 
Bernardo even now has gone to implore 
The Pope to grant our pardon. 

LUCRETIA. 

Child, perhaps 
It will be granted. We may all then live 
To make these Woes a tale for distant years : 
O, what a thought ! It gushes to my heart 
Like the warm blood. 

BEATRICE. 

Yet both will soon be cold. 
O, trample out that thought ! Worse than despair. 
Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope : 
It is the only ill which can find place 
Upon the giddy, sharp and" narrow hour 
Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost 
That it should spare the eldest flower of spring : 
Plead with awakening Earthquake, o'er whose couch 
Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free ; 
Now stench and blackness yawns, like death. O, 



With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, 

Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man ! 

Cruel, cold, formal man ; righteous in words, 

In deeds a Cain. No, mother, we must die : 

Since such is the reward of innocent lives ; 

Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. 

And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, 

Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears 

To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just the grave 

Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, 

And wind me in thine all-embracing arms ! 

Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, 

And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. 

Live ye, who live, subject to one another 

As we were once, who now — 

Bernardo rushes in. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh, horrible ! 
That tears, that looks, that hope pour'd forth in prayer, 
Even till the heart is vacant and despairs. 
Should all be vain ! The ministers of death 
Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw 
Blood on the face of one — what if 'twere fancy? 
Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth 
Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off 
As if 'twere only rain. O, life ! O, world! 
Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see 
That perfect mirror of pure innocence 
Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, 
Shiver'd to dust ! To see thee, Beatrice, 
Who made all lovely thou didst look upon — 
Thee, hght of life — dead, dark I while I say, sister, 
To hear I have no sister ; and thou, mother, 
Whose love was as a bond to all our loves — 
Dead ! The sweet bond broken ! 

324 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



77 



Enter Camillo and Guards. 

They come ! Let me 
Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves 
Are blighted— white — cold. Say farewell, before 
Death chokes that gentle voice ! O let me hear 
You speak ! 

BEATRICE. 

Farewell, my tender brother. Think 
Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now : 
And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee • 
Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair. 
But tears and patience. One thing more, my child. 
For thine own sake be constant to the love 
Thou bearest us ; and to the faith that I, 
Though wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and 

shame. 
Lived ever holy and unstain'd. And though 
111 tongues shall wound me, and our common name 
Be as a mark stamp'd on thine innocent brow 



For men to point at as they pass, do thou 

Forbear, and never think a thought unkind 

Of those who perhaps love thee in their graves. 

So mayest thou die as I do ; fear and pain 

Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! 



BERNARDO. 



I cannot say farewell ! 

CAMILLO. 

O, Lady Beatrice ! 

BEATRICE; 

Give yourself no unnecessary pain, 

My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, mother, tie 

My girdle for me, and bind up this hair 

In any simple knot ; ay, that does well. 

And yours I see is coming down. How often 

Have we done this for one another ! now 

We shall not do it any more. My Lord, 

We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA, IN FOUR ACTS. 



Audisne hsec, Amphiarae, sub ten-am abdite ? 



PREFACE. 



The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject 
any portion of their national history or mythology, 
employed in their treatment of it a certain arbitrary 
discretion. They by no means conceived themselves 
bound to adhere to the common interpretation, or to 
imitate in story as in title their rivals and predeces- 
sors. Such a system would have amounted to a 
resignation of those claims to preference over their 
competitors which incited the composition. The 
Agamemnonian story was exhibited on the Athenian 
theatre with as many variations as dramas. 

I have presumed to employ a similar license. The 
" Prometheus Unbound" of J^^schylus supposed the 
reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as the price 
of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his 
empire by the consummation of his marriage with 
Thetis. "Thetis, according to this view of the subject, 
was given in marriage to Peleus, and Prometheus, 
by the permission of Jupiter, delivered frem his cap- 
tivity by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this 
model, I should have done no more than have at- 
tempted to restore the lost drama of iEschylus ; an 
ambition, which, if my preference to this mode of 
treating the subject had incited me to cherish, the 
recollection of the high comparison such an attempt 
would challenge might well abate. But, in truth 
was averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of 
reconciling the Champion with the Oppressor of man 
kind. The moral interest of the fable, which is so 
powerfully sustained by the sufferings and endurance 
of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could 
conceive of him as unsaying his high language and 
quailing before hia. successful and perfidious adver- 



sary. The only imaginary being resembling in any 
degree Prometheus, is Satan ; and Prometheus is, in 
my judgment, a more poetical character than Satan, 
because, in addition to courage, and majesty, and firm 
and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he is sus- 
ceptible of being described as exempt from the taints 
of ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal 
aggrandizement, which, in the Hero of Paradise Lost, 
interfere with the interest. The character of Satan 
engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry, which 
leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to 
excuse the former because the latter exceed all mea- 
sure. In the minds of those who consider that mag- 
nificent fiction with a religious feeling, it engenders 
something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, 
the type of the highest perfection of moral and intel- 
lectual nature, impelled by the purest and the truest 
motives to the best and noblest ends. 

This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountain 
ous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the 
flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossom- 
ing trees, which are extended in ever-winding laby- 
rinths upon its immense platforms and dizzy arches 
suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, 
and the eflfect of the vigorous awakening spring in 
that divinest climate, and the new life with which it 
drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the 
inspiration of this drama. 

The imagery which I have employed will be 
found, in many instances, to have been drawn from 
the operations of the human mind, or from those ex- 
ternal actions by which they are expressed. This is 
unusual in modern poetiy, although Dante and Shak- 
speare are full of instances of the same kind : Dante 
indeed more than any other poet, and with greater 
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no 
325 



78 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



resource of awakening the sympathy of their con- 
temporaries was unknown, were in the habitual use 
of tiiis power ; and it is the study of their works 
(since a higher merit would probably be denied me), 
to which I am willing that my readers should impute 
this singularity. 

One word is due in candor to the degree in which 
the study of contemporary writings may have tinged 
my composition, for such has been a topic of censure 
with regard to poems far more popular, and indeed 
more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible 
that any one who inhabits the same age with such 
writers as those who stand in the foremost ranks of 
our own, can conscientiously assure himself that his 
language and tone of thought may not have been 
modified by the study of the productions of those ex 
traordinary intellects. It is true, that, not the spirit 
of their genius, but the forms in which it has mani 
fesled itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their 
own minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and 
intellectual condition of the minds among which they 
have been produced. Thus a number of writers 
possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those 
whom, it is alleged, they imitate ; because the former 
is the endowment of the age in which they live, and 
the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of 
their own mind. 

The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive 
imagery which distinguishes the modern literature 
of England, has not been, as a general power, the 
product of the imitation of any particular writer. 
The mass of capabilities remains at every period 
materially the same ; the circumstances which awaken 
it to action perpetually change. If England were 
divided into forty republics, each equal in population 
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose 
but that, under institutions not more perfect than 
those of Athens, each would produce philosophers 
and poets equal to those who (if we except Shak- 
speare) have never been surpassed. We owe the 
;great writers of the golden age of our literature to 
1;hat fervid awakening of the public mind which 
:shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of 
the Christian religion. We owe Milton to the pro- 
gress and development of the same spirit : the sacred 
Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a republican, 
and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The 
great writers of our own age are, we have reason 
to suppose, the companions and forerunners of some 
unimagined change in our social condition or the 
opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is 
discharging its collected lightning, and the equilib- 
rium between institutions and opinions is now re- 
storing, or is about to be restored. 

As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, 
but it creates by combination and representation. 
Poetical abstractions are beautiful and new, not be- 
cause the portions of which they are composed had 
no previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, 
but because the whole produced by their combination 
has some intelligible and beautiful analogy with those 
sources of emotion and thought, and with the con- 
temporary condition of them : one great poet is a 
masterpiece of nature, which another not only ought 
to study but must study. He might as wisely and as 
easily determine that his mind should no longer be 



the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe, 
as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which 
exists in the writings of a great contemporary. The 
pretence of doing it would be a presumption in any 
but the greatest ; the effect, even in him, would be 
strained, unnatural, and ineffectual. A poet is the 
combined product of such internal powers as modify 
the nature of others ; and of such external influences 
as excite and sustain these powers ; he is not one, 
but both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, 
modified by all the objects of nature and art ; by 
every word and every suggestion which he ever ad- 
mitted to act upon his consciousness ; it is the mirror 
upon which all forms are reflected, and in which 
they compose one form. Poets, not otherwise than 
philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, 
in one sense, the creators, and in another, the cre- 
ations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest 
do not escape. There is a similarity between Homer 
and Hesiod, between ^Eschylus and Euripides, be- 
tween Virgil and Horace, between Dante and Pe- 
trarch, between Shakspeare and Fletcher, between 
Dryden and Pope ; each has a generic resemblance 
under which their specific distinctions are arranged. 
If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am will- 
ing to confess that I have imitated. 

Let this opportunity be conceded to me of ac- 
knowledging that I have, what a Scotch philosopher 
characteristically terms, " a passion for reforming the 
world :" what passion incited him to write and pub- 
lish his book, he omits to explain. For my part, I 
had rather be damned with Plato and Lord Bacon, 
than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it 
is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical 
compositions solely to the direct enforcement of re- 
form, or that I consider them in any degree as con- 
taining a reasoned system on the theory of human 
life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence ; nothing can 
be equally well expressed in prose that is not tedious 
and supererogatory in verse. My purpose has hitherto 
been simply to familiarize the highly refined imagi- 
nation of the more select classes of poetical readers 
with beautiful idealisms of moral excellence ; aware 
that until the mind can love, and admire, and trust, 
and hope, and endure, reasoned principles of moral 
conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life, 
which the unconscious passenger tramples into dust, 
although they would bear the harvest of his happi- 
ness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose, 
that is, produce a systematical history of what ap- 
pear to me to be the genuine elements of human so- 
ciety, let not the advocates of injustice and super- 
stition flatter themselves that I should take JEschylus 
rather than Plato as my model. 

The having spoken of myself with unaffected free- 
dom will need little apology with the candid ; and 
let the uncandid consider that they injure me less 
than their owm hearts and minds by misrepresenta- 
tion. (''Whatever talents a person may possess to 
amuse and instruct others, be they ever so inconsider- 
able, he is yet bound to exert them : if his attempt 
be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccom- 
plished purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble 
themselves to heap the dust of oblivion upon his 
efforts; the pile they raise will betray his grave. 
which might otherwise have been unknown, i 
326 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



79 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Prometheus. 

Demogorgon. 

Jupiter. 

The Earth. 

Ocean. 

Apollo. 

Mercury. 

Hercules. 

Asia, 

Panthea, 

lONE, 

The Phantasm of Jupiter. 
The Spirit of the Earth. 
Spirits of the Hours. 
Spirits. Echoes. Fawns. 
Furies. 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



ACT I. 



Scene, a Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caibca- 
sus. Prometheus is discovered hound to the Preci- 
pice. Panthea and Ione are seated at his feet 
Time, Night. During the Scene, Morning slowly 
breaks. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Monarch of Gods and Demons, and all Spirits 
But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds 
Which Thou and I alone of living things 
Behold with sleepless eyes ! regard this Earth, 
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou 
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise, 
And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts. 
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope. 
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate, 
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, 
O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge. 
Three thousand years of sleep-unshelter'd hours, 
And moments aye divided by keen pangs 
Till they seem'd years, torture and solitude. 
Scorn and despair, — these are mine empire, 
More glorious far than that which thou surveyest 
From thine unenvied throne, O, Mighty God ! 
Almighty, had I deign'd to share the shame 
Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here 
Nail'd to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain. 
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured ; without herb, 
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life. 
Ah me, alas ! pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

No change, no pause, no hope ! Yet I endure. 
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt ? 
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, 
Has it not seen ? The Sea, in storm or calm, 
Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below, 
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony ? 
Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears 
Of their moon-freezing crystals ; the bright chains 



Eat wdth their burning cold into my bones. 
Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy lips 
His beak in poison not his own, tears up 
My heart ; and shapeless sights come wandering by, 
The ghastly people of the realm of dream, 
Mocking me : and the Earthquake-fiends are charged 
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds 
When the rocks split and close again behind : 
While from their loud abysses howling throng 
The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. 
And yet to me welcome is day and night, 
Whether one breaks the hoar frost of the mom, 
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs 
The leaden-color'd east ; for then they lead 
The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom 
— As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim — 
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood 
From these pale feet, which then might trample thee 
If they disdain'd not such a prostrate slave. 
Disdain ! Ah no ! I pity thee. What ruin * 
Will hunt thee undefended through the wide Heaven! 
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, 
Gape like a hell within ! I speak in grief, 
Not exultation, for I hate no more 
As then, ere misery made me wise. The curse 
Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains, 
Whose many-voiced Echoes, through the mist 
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell ! 
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost, 
Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept 
Shuddering through India ! Thou serenest Air, 
Through which the Sun walks burning without beams ! 
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised wings 
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hush'd abyss, 
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock 
The orbed world ! If then my words had power, 
Though I am changed so that aught evil wish 
Is dead within ; although no memory be 
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now ! 
What was that curse ? for ye all heard me speak. 

FIKST voice: from THE MOUNTAINS. 

Thrice three hundred thousand years 
O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood : 

Oft, as men convulsed with fears, 
We trembled in our multitude. 



SECOND VOICE : FROM THE SPRINGS. 

Thunderbolts had parch'd our water. 
We had been stain'd with bitter blood. 

And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaughter, 
Through a city and a solitude. 

third VOICE : FROM THE AIR. 

I had clothed, since Earth uprose. 
Its wastes in colors not their own ; 

And oft had my serene repose 

Been cloven by many a rending groan. 

FOURTH VOICE : FROM THE WHIRLWINDS. 

We had soar'd beneath these mountains 
Unresting ages ; nor had thunder. 

Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, 
Nor any power above or under 
Ever made us mute with wonder. 
327 



80 



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FIRST VOICE. 

But never bow'd our snowy crest 
As at the voice of thine unrest. 

SECOND VOICE. 

Never such a sound before 

To the Indian waves we bore. 

A pilot asleep on the howling sea 

Leap'd up from the deck in agony, 

And heard, and cried, " Ah, woe is me ! " 

And died as mad as the wild waves be. 

THIRD VOICE. 

By such dread words from Earth to Hoaven 
My still realm was never riven : 
When its wound was closed, there stood 
Darkness o'er the day like blood. 

FOURTH VOICE. 

And we shrank back : for dreams of ruin 
To frozen caves our flight pursuing 
Made us keep silence — thus — and thus — 
Though silence is a hell to us. 

THE EARTH. 

The tongueless Caverns of the craggy hills 
Cried, " Misery !" then ; the hollow Heaven replied, 
" Misery ! " And the Ocean's purple waves, 
Climbing the land, howl'd to the lashing winds. 
And the pale nations heard it, " Misery ! " 

PROMETHEUS. 

I hear a sound of voices : not the voice 
Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thou 
Scorn him, without whose all-enduring will 
Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, 
Both they and thou had vanish'd, like thin mist 
Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me. 
The Titan ? He who made his agony 
The barrier to your else all-conquering foe ? 
Oh, rock-embosom'd lawns, and snow-fed streams, 
Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep below, 
Through whose o'ershadowing woods I wander'd once 
With Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes ; 
Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, now 
To commune with me ? me alone, who check'd. 
As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer, 
The falsehood and the force of him who reigns 
Supreme, and with the groans of pining slaves 
Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses : 
Why answer ye not, still ? Brethren ! 

THE EARTH. 

They dare not. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who dares ? for I would hear that curse again. 

Ha ! what an awful whisper rises up ! 

'Tis scarce like sound : it tingles through the frame 

As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike. 

Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic voice 

I only know that thou art moving near 

And love. How cursed I him ? 

THE EARTH. 

How canst thou hear, 
Who knowest not the language of the dead ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou art a living spirit ; speak as they. 



THE EARTH. 

I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's fell King 
Should hear, and link me to some wheel of pain 
More torturing than the one whereon I roll. 
Subtle thou art and good ; and though the Gods 
Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than God, 
Being wise and kind : earnestly hearken now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim, 
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel 
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love ; 
Yet 'tis not pleasure. 

THE EARTH. 

No, thou canst not hear : 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known 
Only to those who die. 



PROMETHEUS. 



And what art thou. 



O, melancholy Voice 



THE EARTH. 

I am the Earth, 
Thy mother : she within whose stony veins. 
To the last fibre of the loftiest tree 
Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, 
Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, 
When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud 
Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 
And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted 
Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust, 
And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread 
Grew pale, until his thunder chain'd thee here. 
Then, see those million worlds which burn and roll 
Around us : their inhabitants beheld 
My sphered light wane in wide Heaven ; the sea 
Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire 
From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow 
Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's frown 
Lightning and Inundation vex'd the plains ; 
Blue thistles bloom'd in cities ; foodless toads 
Within voluptuous chambers panting crawl 'd ; 
When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and worm, 
And Famine ; and black blight on herb and tree ; 
And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass, 
Teem'd ineradicable poisonous weeds 
Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry 
With grief; and the thin air, my breath, was stain'd 
With the contagion of a mother's hate 
Breathed on her child's destroyer ; aye, I heard 
Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not. 
Yet my innumerable seas and streams, 
Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, 
And the inarticulate people of the dead, 
Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate 
In secret joy and hope those dreadful words, 
But dare not speak them. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Venerable mother ! 
All else who live and suffer take from thee 
Some comfort ; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds, 
And love, though fleeting ; these may not be mine. 
But mine own words, I pray, deny me not. 

THE EARTH. 

They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, 
The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child. 
Met his own image walking in the garden. 
That apparition, sole of men, he saw. 
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PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



81 



For know there are two worlds of life and death : 

One that which thou beholdest; but the other 

Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit 

The shadows of all forms that think and live 

Till death unite them and they part no more ; 

Dreams and the light imaginings of men. 

And all that faith creates or love desires, 

Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes. 

There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade, 

'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains ; all the gods 

Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds, 

Vast, sceptred phantoms ; heroes, men, and beasts ; 

And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom ; 

And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne 

Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter 

The curse which all remember. Call at will 

Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 

Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods 

From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin 

Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons. 

Ask, and they must reply : so the revenge 

Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades, 

As rainy wind through the abandon'd gate 

Of a fallen palace. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Mother, let not aught 
Of that which may be evil, pass again 
My lips, or those of aught resembling me. 
Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear! 

lONE. 

My wings are folded o'er mine ears : 

My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes : 
Yet through their silver shade appears, 

And through their lulling plumes arise, 
A Shape, a throng of sounds ; 

May it be no ill to thee, 
O thou of many wounds! 
Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, 
Ever thus we watch and wake. 

PANTHEA. 

The sound is of whirlwind underground. 

Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven 
The shape is awful like the sound, 

Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. 
A sceptre of pale gold 

To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud 
His veined hand doth hold. 
Cruel he looks, but calm and strong, 
Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 

PHANTASM OF JUPITER. 

Why have the secret powers of this strange world 
Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither 
On direst storms ? What unaccustom'd sounds 
Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice 
With which our pallid race hold ghastly talk 
In darkness ? And, proud sufferer, who art thou ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Tremendous Image ! as thou art must be 
He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe, 
The Titan. Speak the words which I would hear, 
. Although no thought inform thine empty voice. 

THE EARTH. 

Listen ! And though your echoes must be mute, 
2R 



Gray mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs. 
Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, 
Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A spirit seizes me and speaks within : 
It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA. 

See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven 
Darkens above. 

lONE. 

He speaks ! O shelter me ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I see the curse on gestures proud and cold, 
And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate. 
And such despair as mocks itself with smiles, 
Written as on a scroll: yet speak: Oh, speak! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend, I defy thee! with a calm, fix'd mind. 
All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do ; 

Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human-kind, 
One only being shalt thou not subdue. 

Rain then thy plagues upon me here. 

Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear ; 

And let alternate frost and fire 

Eat into me, and be thine ire 
Lightning, and cutting hail, and legion'd forms 
Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms. 

Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent. 

O'er all things but thyself! gave thee power, 

And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent 
To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower. 

Let thy malignant spirit move 

In darkness over those I love : 

On me and mine I imprecate 

The utmost torture of thy hate ; 
And thus devote to sleepless agony. 
This undeclining head while thou must reign on high. 

But thou, who art the God and Lord : O, thou. 
Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe. 

To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow 
In fear and worship : all-prevailing foe ! 

I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 

Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ; 

Till thine Infinity shall be 

A robe of envenom'd agony ; 
And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain, 
To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain. 

Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse, 

111 deeds, then be thou daran'd, beholding good ; 
Both infinite as is the universe. 

And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude. 
An awful image of calm power 
Though now thou sittest, let the hour 
Come, when thou must appear to be 
That which thou art internally. 
And after many a false and fruitless crime. 
Scorn track thy lagging fall through boundless space 
and time. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Were these my words, Parent ? 



82 



SHELLEY'S POETICAju WORKS. 



THE EARTH. 

They were thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It doth repent me : words are quick and vain : 
Grief for awhile is bhnd, and so was mine. 
1 wish no hving thing to suffer pain. 

THE EARTH. 

Misery, Oh misery to me, 
That Jove at length should vanquish thee. 
Wail, howl aloud. Land and Sea, 
The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye. 
Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead. 
Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and van- 
quished. 

FIRST ECHO. 

Lies fallen and vanquished ! 

SECOND ECHO. 

Fallen and vanquished ! 



Fear not : 'tis but some passing spasm, 

The Titan is unvanquish'd still. 
But see, where through the azure chasm 

Of yon fork'd and snowy hill 
Trampling the slant winds on high 

With golden-sandall'd feet, that glow 
Under plumes of purple dye, 
Like rose-ensanguined ivory, 

A Shape comes now, 
Stretching on high from his right hand 
A serpent-cinctured wand. 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis Jove's world -wandering herald, Mercury. 



And who are those with hydra tresses 
And iron wings that climb the wind,- 

Whom the frowning God represses 
Like vapors steaming up behind. 

Clanging loud, an endless crowd — 

PANTHEA. 

These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds, 
Whom he gluts with groans and blood, 
When charioted on sulphurous cloud 

He bursts Heaven's bounds. 



Are they now led, from the thin dead 
On new pangs to be fed ? 

PANTHEA. 

The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. 



Ha ! I scent life ! 



FIRST FURY. 
SECOND FURY. 

Let me but look into his eyes ! 



THIRD FURY. 

The hope of torturing him smells like a heap 
Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. 

FIRST FURY. 

Darest thou delay, O Herald ! take cheer, Hoimds 



Of Hell : what if the Son of Maia soon 

Should make us food and sport — who can please long 

The Omnipotent ? 

MERCURY. 

Back to your towers of iron, 
And gnash beside the streams of fire, and wail 
Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise ! and Gorgon, 
Chimsera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of fiends, 
Who minister'd to Thebes Heaven's poison'd wine, 
Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate : 
These shall perform your task. 

FIRST FURY. 

Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 
We die with our desire : drive us not back ! 

MERCURY. 

Crouch then in silence. 

Awful Sufferer! 
To thee unwilling, most unwillingly 
I come, by the great Father's will driven down. 
To execute a doom of new revenge. 
Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 
That I can do no more : aye from thy sight 
Returning, for a season, Heaven seems hell. 
So thy worn form pursues me night and day. 
Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good. 
But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in strife 
Against the Omnipotent ; as yon clear lamps 
That measure and divide the weary years 
From which there is no refuge, long have taught 
And long must teach. Even now thy Torturer arms 
With the strange might of unimagined pains 
The powers who scheme slow agonies in Hell, 
And my commission is to lead them here. 
Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends 
People the abyss, and leave them to their task. 
Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
To thee, and to none else of living things, 
Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven, 
The fear of which perplexes the Supreme : 
Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his throne 
In intercession ; bend thy soul in prayer. 
And like a suppliant in some gorgeous fane. 
Let the will kneel within thy haughty heart : 
For benefits and meek submission tame 
The fiercest and the mightiest. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Evil minds 
Change good to their own nature. I gave all 
He has ; and in return he chains me here 
Years, ages, night and day : whether the Sun 
Split my parch'd skin, or in the moony night 
The crystal-winged snow cling round my hair : 
Whilst my beloved race is trampled down 
By his thought-executing ministers. 
Such is the tyrant's recompense : 'tis just : 
He who is evil can receive no good ; 
And for a world bestow'd, or a friend lost. 
He can feel hate, fear, shame ; not gratitude : 
He but requites me for his own misdeed. 
Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks 
With bitter stings the light sleep of Revenge. 
Submission, thou dost know I cannot try : 
For what submission but that fatal word, 
The death-seal of mankind's captivity. 
Like the SiciUan's hair-suspended sword. 
Which trembles o'er his crown, would he accept, 

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PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



83 



Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not yield. 
Let others flatter Crime, where it sits throned 
In brief Omnipotence : secure are they : 
For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down 
Pity not punishment, on her own wrongs, 
Too much avenged by those who err. I wait, 
Enduring thus, the retributive hour 
Which since we spake is even nearer now. 
But hark, the hell-hounds clamor : fear delay : 
Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown. 

MERCURY. 

Oh, that we might be spared. I to inflict, 
And thou to suflfer Once more answer me : 
Thou knowest not the period of Jove's power ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I know but this, that it must come. 

MERCURY. 

Alas! 
Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

They last while Jove must reign : nor more nor less 
Do I desire or fear. 

MERCURY. 

Yet pause, and plunge 
Into Eternity, where recorded time. 
Even all that we imagine, age on age. 
Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind 
Flags wearily in its unending flight. 
Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless ; 
Perchance it has not number'd the slow years 
Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass. 

MERCURY. 

If thou might'st dwell among the Gods the while, 
Lapp'd in voluptuous joy ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I would not quit 
This bleak ravine, these imrepentant pains. 

MERCURY. 

Alas ! I wonder at, yet pity thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven, 
Not me, within whose mind sits peace serene. 
As light in the sun, throned : how vain is talk ! 
Call up the fiends. 

lONE. 

O, sister, look ! White fire 
Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar; 
How fearfully God's thunder howls behind ! 

MERCURY. 

I must obey his words and thine : alas ! 
Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart ! 

PANTHEA. 

See where the child of Heaven, with winged feet, 
Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn. 

lONE. 

Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine eyes, 
Lest thou behold and die : they come : they come. 
Blackening the birth of day with countless wings, 
And hollow underneath, like death. 



FIRST FURY. 



SECOND FURY. 



Prometheus ! 



Immortal Titan! 



THIRD FURY. 

Champion of Heaven's slaves ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here, 
Prometheus, the chain'd Titan. Horrible forms, 
What and who are ye ? Never yet there came 
Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming Hell 
From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; 
Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, 
Methinks I grow like what I contemplate, 
And laugh and stare in lothesome sympathy. 

FIRST FURY. 

We are the ministers of pain and fear. 
And disappointment, and mistrust, and hate. 
And clinging crime ; and as lean dogs pursue 
Through wood and lake some struck and sobbing fawn, 
We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live, 
When the great King betrays them to our will. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh ! many fearful natures in one name, 
I know ye ; and these lakes and echoes know 
The darkness and the clangor of your wings. 
But why more hideous than your lothed selves 
Gather ye up in legions from the deep ? 

SECOND FURY. 

We knew not that : Sisters, rejoice, rejoice ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Can aught exult in its deformity ? 

SECOND FURY. 

The beauty of delight makes lovers glad. 

Gazing on one another : so are we. 

As from the rose which the pale priestess Imeels 

To gather for her festal crown of flowers 

The aerial crimson falls, flushing her cheek, 

So from our victims' destined agony 

The shade which is our form invests us round. 

Else we are shapeless as our mother Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I laugh your power, and his who sent you here, 
To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain. 1 

FIRST FURY. 

Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone 
And nerve from nerve, working like fire within ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pain is my element, as hate is thine ; 
Ye rend me now : I care not. 

SECOND FURY. 

Dost imagine 
We wdll but laugh into thy lidless eyes ? • 

PROMETHEUS. 

I weigh not what ye do, but what ye suflfer. 
Being evil. Cruel was the power which call'd 
You, or aught else so wretched, into light, 

THIRD FURY. 

Thou think'st we will live through thee, one by one, 
Like animal life, and though we can obscure not 
The soul which burns wdthin, that we will dwell 
Beside it, like a vain loud multitude 
Vexing the self-content of wisest men : 
That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain. 
And foul desire round thine astonish'd heart, 
And blood within thy labyrinthine veins, 
Crawling hke agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why ye are thus now ; 
Yet am I king over myself) and rule 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The torturing and conflicting throngs within, 


ANOTHER FURY. 


As Jove rules you when Hell grows mutinous. 


It is torn. 


CHORUS OF FURIES. 


CHORUS. 


From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the 


The pale stars of the mom 


earth, 


Shine on a misery to be borne. 


Where the night has its grave and the morning its 


Dost thou faint, mighty Tilan? We laugh thee to scorn. 


birth, 


Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou waken'dst 


Come, come, come ! 


for man ? 


Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth. 


Then was kindled within him a thirst which outran 


When cities sink howling in ruin ; and ye 


Those perishing waters ; a thirst of fierce fever. 


Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea, 


Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume him for ever. 


And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track, 


One came forth of gentle worth. 


Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck : 


Smiling on the sanguine earth ; 


Come, come, come ! 


His words outlived him, like swift poison 


Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, 


Withering up truth, peace, and pity. 


Strew'd beneath a nation dead ; 


Look ! where round the wide horizon 


Leave the hatred, as in ashes 


Many a million-peopled city 


Fire is left for future burning : 


Vomits smoke in the bright air. 


It will burst in bloodier flashes 


Mark that outcry of despair ! 


When ye stir it, soon returning : 


'Tis his mild and gentle ghost 


Leave the self-contempt implanted 


Wailing for the faith he kindled : 


In young spirits, sense-enchanted, 


Look again ! the flames almost 


Misery's yet unkindled fuel : 


To a glow-worm's lamp have dwindled: 


Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted, 


The survivors round the embers 


To the maniac dreamer ; cruel 


Gather in dread. 


More than ye can be with hate 


Joy. joy. joy ! 


Is he with fear. 


Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers ; 


Come, come, come! 


And the future is dark, and the present is spread 


We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate. 


Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head. 


And we burthen the blasts of the atmosphere, 




But vainly we toil till ye come here. 


SEMICHORUS I. 




Drops of bloody agony flow 


lONE. 


From his white and quivering brow. 


Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings. 


Grant a little respite now ; 




See ! a disenchanted nation 


PANTHEA. 


Springs like day from desolation; 


These solid mountains quiver with the sound 


To Truth its state is dedicate. 


Even as the tremulous air : their shadows make 


And Freedom leads it forth, her mate ; 


The space within my plumes more black than night. 


A legion'd band of linked brothers, 




Whom Love calls children — 


FIRST FURY. 




Your call was as a winged car, 


SEMICHORUS II. 


Driven on whirlwinds fast and far : 


'Tis another's: 


It wrapt us from red gulfs of war. 


See how kindred murder kin ! 




'Tis the vintage-time for death and sin. 


SECOND FURY. 


Blood, like new wine, bubbles within : 


From wide cities, famine-wasted ; 


Till despair smothers 




The struggling world, which slaves and tyrants win 


THIRD FURY. 


[All the Furies vanish, except one 


Groans half heard, and blood untasted ; 


FOURTH FURY. 


lONE. 

Hark, sister ! what a low yet dreadful groan 


Kingly conclaves, stern and cold. 

Where blood with gold is bought and sold; 


Quite unsuppress'd is tearing up the heart 
Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep. 




And beasts hear the sea moan in inland caves. 


FIFTH FURY. 


Darest thou observe how the fiends torture him ? 


From the furnace, white and hot, 




In which — 


PANTHEA. 


A FURY. 


Alas ! I look'd forth twice, but will no more. 


Speak not ; whisper not : 




I know all that ye would tell. 
But to speak might break the spell 


lONE. 

What didst thou see ? 


Which must bend the Invincible, 


PANTHEA. 


The stern of thought ; 


A woful sight : a youth 


He yet defies the deepest power of Hell. 


With patient looks nail'd to a crucifix. 


FURY. 


lONE. 


Tear the veil ! 


What next? 



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85 



PANTHEA. 

The heaven around, the earth below 
Was peopled with thick shapes of human death, 
All horrible, and wrought by human hands. 
And some appear'd the work of human hearts. 
For men were slowly kill'd by frowns and smiles : 
And other sights too foul to speak and live 
Were wandering by. Let us not tempt worse fear 
By looking forth : those groans are grief enough. 

FURY. 

Behold an emblem : those who do endure 

Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but 

heap 
Thousandfold torment on themselves and him. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Remit the anguish of that lighted stare ; 

Close those wan lips ; let that thorn-wounded brow 

Siream nut with blood ; it mingles with thy tears ! 

Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death, 

So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix. 

So those pale fingers play not with thy gore. 

O, horrible ! Thy name I will not speak, 

It hath become a curse. I see, I see 

The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just, 

Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee, 

Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's home, 

An early-chosen, late-lamented home ; 

As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind ; 

Some link'd to corpses in unwholesome cells : 

Some — Hear I not the multitude laugh loud ? — 

Impaled in lingering fire : and mighty realms 

Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles. 

Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood 

By the red light of their own burning homes. 

FURY. 

Blood thou canst see, and fire ; and canst hear groans : 
Worse things unheard, unseen, remain behind. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Worse ? 

FURY. 

In each human heart terror survives 
The ruin it has gorged : the loftiest fear 
All that they would disdain to think were true : 
Hypocrisy and custom make their minds 
The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. 
They dare not devise good for man's estate. 
And yet they know not that they do not dare. 
The good want power, but to weep barren tears. 
The powerful goodness want : worse need for them. 
The wise want love; and those who love, want 

wisdom ; 
And all best things are thus confused to ill. 
Many are strong and rich, and would be just, 
But live among their suffering fellow-men 
As if none felt : they know not what they do. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes ; 
And yet I pity those they torture not. 

FURY. 

Thou pitiest them ? I speak no more ! [Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah woe ! 
Ah woe ! Alas ! pain, pain ever, for ever ! 
I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear 
Thy works within my woe-illumined mind, 
Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave. 
The grave hides all things beautiful and good .* 
I am a God, and cannot find it there, 



Nor would I seek it : for, though dread revenge, 
This is defeat, fierce king ! not victory. 
The sights with which thou torturest, gird my soul 
With new endurance, till the hour arrives 
When they shall be no types of things which are. 

PANTHEA. 

Alas ! what sawest thou ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

There are two woes ; 
To speak and to behold ; thou spare me one. 
Names are there, Nature's sacred watch- words, they 
Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry ; 
The nations throng'd around, and cried aloud, 
As with one voice. Truth, liberty, and love ! 
Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven 
Among them : there was strife, deceit, and fear : 
Tyrants rush'd in, and did divide the spoil. 
This was the shadow of the truth I saw. 

THE EARTH. 

I felt thy torture, son, with such mix'd joy 

As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy state 

I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, 

Whose homes are the dim caves of human thought. 

And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind, 

Its world-surrounding ether : they behold 

Beyond that twihght realm, as in a glass. 

The future : may they speak comfort to thee ! 

PANTHEA. 

Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather, 

Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather, 

Thronging in the blue air ! 

lONE. 

And see ! more come, 
Like fountain vapors when the winds are dumb. 
That climb up the ravine in scatter'd lines. 
And, hark ! is it the music of the pines ? 
Is it the lake ? Is it the waterfall ? 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis something sadder, sweeter far than all. 

CHORUS OP SPIRITS. 
From unremember'd ages we 
Gentle guides and guardians be 
Of heaven-oppress'd mortality ; 
And we breathe, and sicken not. 
The atmosphere of human thought : 
Be it dim, and dank, and gray. 
Like a storm-extinguish'd day, 
Travell'd o'er by dying gleams ; 

Be it bright as all between 
Cloudless skies and windless streams, 

Silent, liquid, and serene ; 
As the birds within the wind. 

As the fish within the wave, 
As the thoughts of man's own mind 

Float through all above the grave ; 
We make these our liquid lair, 
Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
Through the boundless element : 
Thence we bear the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee ! 

lONE. 

More yet come, one by one : the air around them 
Looks radiant as the air around a star. 
333 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



FIRST SPIRIT. 

On a battle-trumpet's blast 
I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
'Mid the darkness upward cast. 
From the dust of creeds outworn, 
From the tyrant's banner torn, 
Gathering round me, onward borne, 
There was mingled many a cry — 
Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
Till they faded through the sky ; 
And one sound above, around, 
One sound beneath, around, above, 
Was moving ; 'twas the soul of love ; 
'Twas the hope, the prophecy, 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

A rainbow's arch stood on the sea. 
Which rock'd beneath, immovably ; 
And the triumphant storm did flee. 
Like a conqueror, swift and proud, 
Between with many a captive cloud 
A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd. 
Each by lightning riven in half: 
I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh : 
Mighty fleets were strewn like chaflf 
And spread beneath a hell of death 
O'er the white waters. I alit 
On a great ship lightning-split, 
And speeded hither on the sigh 
Of one who gave an enemy 
His plank, then plunged aside to die. 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

I sat beside a sage's bed, 

And the lamp was burning red 

Near the book where he had fed, 

When a Dream with plumes of flame. 

To his pillow hovering came. 

And I knew it was the same 

Which had kindled long ago 

Pity, eloquence, and woe ; 

And the world awhile below 

Wore the shade its lustre made. 

It has borne me here as fleet 

As Desire's lightning feet : 

I must ride it back ere morrow, 

Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

On a poet's lips I slept, 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept ; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt thought's vdldemesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 

Nor heed nor see, what things they be ; 

But from these create he can 

Forms more real than living man, 

Nurslings of immortality ! 

One of these awaken'd me, 

And I sped to succor thee. 



lONE. 

Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west 

Come, as two doves to one beloved nest, 

Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air 

On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere ? 

And, hark ! their sweet, sad voices ! 't is despair 

Mingled with love and then dissolved in sound. 

PANTHEA. 

Canst thou speak, sister ? all my words are drown'd. 

lONE. 

Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float 
On their sustaining wings of skiey grain. 
Orange and azure deepening into gold : 
Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

Hast thou beheld the form of Love ? 

FIFTH SPIR,IT. 

As over wide dominions 
I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide 

air's wildernesses. 
That planet-crested shape swept by on lightning- 
braided pinions, 
Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambrosial 



His footsteps paved the world with light ; but as I 

pass'd 't was fading, 
And hollow Ruin yawn'd behind : great sages bound 

in madness, 
And headless patriots, and pale youths who perish'd, 

unupbraiding, 
Gleam'd in the night. I wander'd o'er, till thou, O 

King of sadness, 
Turn'd by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected 

gladness. 

SIXTH SPIRIT. 

Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing : 

It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, 

But treads with silent footstep, and fans with silent 

wing 
The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and 

gentlest bear ; 
Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes 

above, 
And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet. 
Dream visionsof aerial joy, and call the monster, Love, 
And wake and find the shadow Pain, as he whom 

now we greet. 

CHORUS. 

Though Ruin now Love's shadow be. 
Following him, destroyingly, 

On Death's white and winged steed, 
Which the fleetest cannot flee. 

Trampling down both flower and weed, 
Man and beast, and foul and fair. 
Like a tempest through the air ; 
Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, 
Woundless though in heart or limb. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Spirits ! how know ye this shall be ? 

CHORUS. 

In the atmosphere we breathe. 
As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee, 
334 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



87 



From spring gathering up beneath, 
Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, 
And the wandering herdsmen know 
That the white-thorn soon will blow : 
Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
When they struggle to increase, 
Are to us as soft winds be 
To shepherd boys, the prophecy 
Which begins and ends in thee. 

lONE. 

Where are the spirits fled ? 

PANTHEA. 

Only a sense 
Remains of them, like the omnipotence 
Of music, when the inspired voice and lute 
Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, 
WTiich through the deep and labyrinthine soul. 
Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How fair these air-borne shapes ! and yet I feel 

Most vain all hope but love ; and thou art far, 

Asia ! who, when my being overflow'd, 

Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine 

Which else had simk into the thirsty dust. 

All things are still : alas ! how heavily 

This quiet morning weighs upon my heart ; 

Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief, 

If slumber were denied not. I would fain 

Be what it is my destiny to be. 

The savior and the strength of suffering man, 

Or smk into the original gulf of things : 

There is no agony, and no solace left ; 

Earth can console. Heaven can torment no more. 



Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee 
The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when 
The shadow of thy spirit falls on her ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I said all hope was vain but love : thou lovest. 

PANTHEA. 

Deeply, in truth ; but the eastern star looks white, 
And Asia waits in that far Indian vale 
The scene of her sad exile ; rugged once 
And desolate and frozen, like this ravine ; 
But now invested with fair flowers and herbs. 
And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow 
Among the woods and waters, from the ether 
Of her transforming presence, which would fade 
If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell ! 



ACT II. 
SCENE L 

Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. 
Asia, alone. 

ASIA. 

From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended 
Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes 
Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, 
And beatings haunt the desolated heart, 



Which should have learnt repose : thou hast descend- 
ed 

Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, O Spring ! 
O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
Thou comest as the memory of a dream. 
Which now is sad because it hath been sweet ! 
Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 
As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds 
The desert of our life. 
This is the season, this the day, the hour ; 
At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine. 
Too long desired, too long delaying, come ! 
How like death- worms the wingless moments crawl I 
The point of one white star is quivering still 
Deep in the orange light of widening morn 
Beyond the purple mountains : through a chasm 
Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
Reflects it : now it wanes : it gleams again 
As the waves fade, and as the burning threads 
Of woven cloud unravel in pale air : 
'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloudlike snow 
The roseate sunlight quivers : hear I not 
The iEolian music of her sea-green plumes 
Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 

Panthea enters. 

1 feel, I see 
Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in 

tears, 

Like stars half quench'd in mists of silver dew. 
Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest 
The shadow of that soul-by which I live. 
How late thou art ! the sphered sun had climb'd 
The sea ; my heart was sick with hope, before 
The printless air felt thy belated plumes. 



Pardon, great Sister ! but my wings were faint 
With the delight of a remember'd dream. 
As are the noontide plumes of summer winds 
Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep 
Peacefully, and awake refresh'd and calm 
Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy 
Unhappy love, had made, through use and pity. 
Both love and woe familiar to my heart 
As they had grown to thine : erewhile I slept 
Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean 
Within dim bowers of green and purple moss. 
Our young Tone's soft and milky arms 
Lock'd then, as now, behind my dark, moist hair, 
While my shut eyes and cheek were press'd within 
The folded depth of her life-breathing bosom ; 
But not as now, since T am made the wind 
Which fails beneath the music that I bear 
Of thy most wordless converse ; since dissolved 
Into the sense with which love talks, my rest 
Was troubled and yet sweet ; my waking hours 
Too full of care and pain. 



Lift up thine eyes, 
And let me read thy dream. 

PANTHEA. 

As I have said 
With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
The mountain mists, condensing at our voice 
Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes. 
From the keen ice shielding our linked sleep. 
Then two dreams came. One, I remember not 
But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs 
335 



88 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night 

Grew radiant with the glory of that form 

Which lives unchanged within, and his voice fell 

Like music which makes giddy the dim brain, 

Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 

" Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world 

With loveliness — more fair than aught but her, 

Whose shadow thou art — lift thine eyes on me." 

I lifted them : the overpowering light 

Of that immortal shape was shadow'd o'er 

By love ; which, from his soft and flowing limbs, 

And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes, 

Steam'd forth like vaporous fire ; an atmosphere 

Which wrapt me in its all-dissolving power, 

As the warm ether of the morning sun 

Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. 

I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt 

His presence flow and mingle through my blood 

Till it became his life, and his grew mine, 

And I was thus absorb'd, until it past, 

And like the vapors when the sun sinks down^ 

Gathering again in drops upon the pines. 

And tremulous as they, in the deep night 

My being was condensed ; and as the rays 

Of thought were slowly gather'd, I could hear 

His voice, whose accents linger'd ere they died 

Like footsteps of weak melody : thy name 

Among the many sounds alone I heard 

Of what might be articulate ; though still 

I listen'd through the night when sound was none. 

lone waken'd then, and said to me : 

" Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night ? 

I always knew what I desired before. 

Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 

But now I cannot tell thee what I seek ; 

I know not ; something sweet, since it is sweet 

Even to desire ; it is thy sport, false sister ; 

Thou hast disco ver'd some enchantment old, 

Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept 

And mingled it with thine : for when just now 

We kiss'd, I felt within thy parted lips 

The sweet air that sustain'd me, and the warmth 

Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, 

Quiver'd between our intertwining arms." 

I answer'd not, for the Eastern star grew pale, 

But fled to thee. 

ASIA. 

Thou speakest, but thy words 
Are as the air : I feel them not : Oh, lift 
Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul ! 

PANTHEA. 

I lift them, though they drop beneath the load 
Of that they would express : what canst thou see 
But thine own fairest shadow imaged there ? 



Thine eyes are like the deep-blue, boundless heaven 
Contracted to two circles underneath 
Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, measureless. 
Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven. 



PANTHEA. 

Why lookest thou as if a spirit past ? 



There is a change : beyond their inmost depth 
I see a shade, a shape : 'tis He, array'd 
In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread 
Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded morn. 



Prometheus, it is thine ! depart not yet ! 

Say not those smiles that we shall meet again 

Within that bright pavilion which their beams 

Shall build on the waste world ? The dream is told 

What shape is that between us ? Its rude hair 

Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard 

Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a thing of air. 

For through its gray robe gleams the golden dew 

Whose stars the noon has quench'd not. 

DREAM. 

Follow! Follow! 

PANTHEA. 

It is mine other dream. 

ASIA. 

It disappears. 

PANTHEA. 

It passes now into my mind. Methought 
As we sate here, the flower-infolding buds 
Burst on yon lightning-blasted almond-tree. 
When swift from the white Scythian wilderness 
A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth with frost : 
I look'd, and all the blossoms were blown down ; 
But on each leaf was stamp'd, as the blue bells 
Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 
O, follow, follow ! 

ASIA. 

As you speak, your words 
Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten sleep 
With shapes. Methought among the lawns together 
We wander'd, underneath the young gray dawn. 
And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds 
Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains. 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind ; 
And the white dew on the new-bladed grass, 
Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently ; 
And there was more which I remember not : 
But on the shadows of the morning clouds. 
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written, 
Follow, O, follow ! As they vanish'd by. 
And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had 

fallen, 
The like was stamp'd, as with a withering fire. 
A wind arose among the pines : it shook 
The clinging music from their boughs, and then 
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts» 
Were heard : Oh, follow, follow, follow me ! 
And then I said ; " Panthea, look on me." 
But in the depth of those beloved eyes 
Still I saw, follow, follow ! 

ECHO. 

Follow, follow ! 

PANTHEA. 

The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our 

voices. 
As they were spirit-tongued. 

ASIA. 

It is some being 
Around the crags. What fine clear sounds ! O, list • 



ECHOES {unseen). 
Echoes we : listen ! 
We cannot stay : 
As dew-stars glisten 
Then fade away — 
Child of Ocean! 



336 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



Hark ! Spirits, speak. The liquid responses 
Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 

PAN THE A. 

I hear. 

ECHOES. 

O, follow, follow. 

As our voice recedeth 
Through the caverns hollow. 
Where the forest spreadeth ; 
(More distant.) 
O, follow, follow! 
Through the caverns hollow, 
As the song floats thou pursue, 
Where the wild bee never flew, 
Through the noontide darkness deep. 
By the odor-breathing sleep 
Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
At the fountain-lighted caves, 
While our music, wild and sweet. 
Mocks thy gently falling feet. 
Child of Ocean ! 



Shall we pursue the sound ? It grows more faint 
And distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List ! the strain floats nearer now 



In the world unknown 
Sleeps a voice unspoken ; 

By thy step alone 

Can its rest be broken ; 
Child of Ocean! 



How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind ! 

ECHOES. 

O, follow, follow ! 

Through the caverns hollow. 
As the song floats thou pursue. 
By the woodland noontide dew; 
By the forests, lakes, and fountains. 
Through the many-folded mountains ; 
To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms. 
Where the Earth reposed from spasms, 
On the day when He and thou 
Parted, to commingle now ; 
Child of Ocean! 



Come, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in mine. 
And follow, ere the voices fade away. 



SCENE II. 



A Forest, intermingled vxith Rocks and Caverns. Asia 
and Panthea pass into it Two young Fauns are 
sitting on a Rock, listening 

SEMICHORUS I. OF SPIRITS. 

The path through which that lovely twain 
Have past, by cedar, pine, and yew. 
And each dark tree that ever grew. 
Is curtain'd out from Heaven's wide blue ; 

2S 



Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain. 
Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
Nor aught, save where some cloud of dew, 
Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze. 
Between the trunks of the hoar trees. 

Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers 
Of the green laurel, blown anew ; 
And bends, and then fades silently, 
One frail and fair anemone : 
Or when some star of many a one 
That climbs and wanders through steep night, 
Has found the cleft through which alone 
Beams fall from high those depths upon 
Ere it is borne away, away. 
By the swift Heavens that cannot stay. 
It scatters drops of golden light. 
Like lines of rain that ne'er unite : 
And the gloom divine is all around ; 
And underneath is the mossy ground. 



SEMICHORUS II. 

There the voluptuous nightingales. 

Are awake through all the broad noonday, 

When one with bliss or sadness fails. 

And through the windless ivy-boughs. 
Sick with sweet love, droops dying away 

On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 

Another from the swinging blossom, 

Watching to catch the languid close 
Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
The wings of the weak melody. 

Till some new strain of feeling bear 
The song, and all the woods are mute ; 

When there is heard through the dim air 

The rush of wings, and rising there 
Like many a lake-surrounding flute. 

Sounds overflow the listener's brain 

So sweet, that joy is almost pain. 



SEMICHORUS I. 

There those enchanted eddies play 

Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw. 
By Demogorgon's mighty law, 
With melting rapture, or sweet awe. 

All spirits on that secret way; 

As inland boats are driven to Ocean 

Down streams made strong with mountain-thaw; 
And first there comes a gentle sound 
To those in talk or slumber bound, 
And wakes the destined soft emotion, 

Attracts, impels them : those who saw 
Say from the breathing earth behind 
There streams a plume-uplifting wind 

Which drives them on their path, while they 
Believe their own swift wings and feet 

The sweet desires within obey: 

And so they float upon their way, 

Until, still sweet, but loud and strong. 

The storm of sound is driven along, 
Suck'd up and hurrying as they fleet 
Behind, its gathering billows meet, 

And to the fatal mountain bear 

Like clouds amid the yielding air. 



FIRST FAUN. 

Canst thou imagine where those spirits live 
337 



90 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Which make such delicate music in the woods? 
We haunt within the least frequented caves ' 
And closest coverts, and we know these wilds, 
Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft : 
Where may they hide themselves ? 

SECOND FAUN. 

'Tis hard to tell; 
I have heard those more skill'd in spirits say, 
The bubbles, which enchantment of the sun 
Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers that pave 
The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools, 
Are the pavilions where such dwell and float 
Under the green and golden atmosphere 
Which noontide kindles through the woven leaves ; 
And when these burst, and the thin fiery air, 
The which they breathed within those lucent domes. 
Ascends to flow like meteors through the night, 
They ride on them, and rein their headlong speed, 
And bow their burning crests, and glide in fire 
Under the waters of the earth again. 

FIRST FAUN. 

If such live thus, have others other lives, 
Under pink blossoms or within the bells 
Of meadow flowers, or folded violets deep, 
Or on their dying odors, when they die, 
Or on the sunlight of the sphered dew ? 

SECOND FAUN. 

Ay, many more which we may well divine. 
But should we stay to speak, noontide would come, 
And thwart Silenus find his goats undrawn, 
And grudge to sing those wise and lovely songs 
Of fate, and chance, and God, and Chaos old. 
And Love, and the chain'd Titan's woful dooms, 
And how he shall be loosed, and make the earth 
One brotherhood : delightful strains which cheer 
Our solitary twilights, and which charm 
To silence the unenvying nightingales. 



SCENE III. 



A Pinnacle of Rock among Mountains. Asia and 
Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

Hither the sound has borne us — to the realm 

Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal. 

Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm, 

Whence the oracular vapor is hurl'd up 

Which lonely men drink wandering in their youth, 

And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy. 

That maddening wine of life, whose dregs they drain 

To deep intoxication ; and uplift, 

Like Maenads who cry loud, Evoe! Evoe! 

The voice which is contagion to the world. 

ASIA. 

Fit throne for such a Power ! Magnificent ! 
How glorious art thou. Earth ' And if thou be 
The shadow of some spirit lovelier still, 
Though evil stain its work, and it should be 
Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, 
I could fall down and worship that and thee. 
Even now my heart adoreth : Wonderful ! 
Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy brain : 
Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, 
As a lake, paving in the morning sky. 
With azure waves which burst in silver light, 
Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 



Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
The peak whereon we stand, midway, around, 
Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests, 
Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumined caves, 
And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist ; 
And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains 
From icy spires of sunlike radiance fling 
The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray. 
From some Atlantic islet scatter'd up. 
Spangles the wind with lamp-like water-drops, 
The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl 
Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines 
Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast. 
Awful as silence. Hark! the rushing snow! 
The sun-awaken'd avalanche ! whose mass. 
Thrice sifted by the storm, had gather'd there 
Flake after flake, in Heaven-defying minds 
As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth 
Is loosen'd, and the nations echo round, 
Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now. 



Look how the gusty sea of mist is breaking 
In crimson foam, even at our feet! it rises 
As Ocean at the enchantment of the moon 
Round foodless men wreck'd on some oozy ii 



The fragments of the cloud are scatter'd up ; 
The wind that lifl;s them disentwines my hair ; 
Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; my brain 
Grows dizzy ; I see thin shapes witliin the mist. 

PANTHEA. 

A countenance with beckoning smiles : there bums 
An azure fire within its golden locks ! 
Another and another : hark ! they speak ! 

SONG OF SPIRITS. 

To the deep, to the deep, 

Down, down ! 
Through the shade of sleep, 
Through the cloudy strife 
Of Death and of Life ; 
Through the veil and the bar 
Of things which seem and are. 
Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 

Down, down! 

While the sound whirls around, 

Down, dovvn! 
As the favm draws the hound, 
As the lightning the vapor, 
As a weak moth the taper ; 
Death, despair; love, sorrow; 
Time both ; to-day, to-morrow j 
As steel obeys the spirit of the stone> 

Down, down! 

Through the gray, void abysm, 

Down, down! 
Where the air is no prism. 
And the moon and stars are not, 
And the cavern-crags wear not 
The radiance of Heaven, 
Nor the gloom to Earth given. 
Where there is one pervading, one alone, 

Down, down ! 

338 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



91 



In the depth of the deep 

Down, down ! 
Like veil'd lightning asleep, 
Like the spark nursed in embers, 
The last look Love remembers, 
Like a diamond, which shines 
On the dark wealth of mines, 
A spell is treasured but for thee alone. 

Down, down ! 

We have botmd thee, we guide thee : 

Down, down ! 
With the bright form beside thee ; 
Resist not the weakness. 
Such strength is in meekness 
That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
Must unloose through life's portal 
The snake-like Doom coil'd underneath 
throne 

By that alone. 



SCENE IV. 



The Cave of Demogorgon, Asia and Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

What veiled form sits on that ebon throne ? 



The veil has fallen. 

PANTHEA. 

I see a mighty darkness 
Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom 
Dart round, as light from the meridian sun, 
TJngazed upon and shapeless ; neither limb, 
Nor form, nor outline ; yet we feel it is 
A living Spirit. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ask what thou wouldst know. 

ASIA. 

What canst thou tell ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All things thou darest demand. 

ASIA. 

Who made the living world ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God. 

ASIA. 

Who made all 
That it contains ? thought, passion, reason, will. 
Imagination ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God : Almighty God. 

ASIA. 

Who made that sense which, when the winds of spring 

In rarest visitation, or the voice 

Of one beloved heard in youth alone. 

Fills the faint eyes with falling tears which dim 

The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers, 

And leaves this peopled earth a solitude 

When it returns no more ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

Merciful God. 

ASIA. 

And who made terror, madness, crime, remorse. 
Which from the links of the great chain of things. 
To every thought within the mind of man 



Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels 
Under the load towards the pit of death ; 
Abandon'd hope, and love that tin-ns to hate ; 
And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than blood : 
Pain, whose unheeding and familiar speech 
Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after day ; 
And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell ? 



DEMOGORGON. 



He reigns. 



Utter his name : a world pining in pain 

Asks but his name : curses shall drag him down. 



He reigns. 



DEMOGORGON. 



ASIA. 

I feel, I know it : who ? 



DEMOGORGON. 



He reigns. 



Who reigns ? There was the Heaven and Earth at 

first. 
And Light and Love ; then Saturn, from whose throne 
Time fell, an envious shadow : such the state 
Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his sway. 
As the calm joy of flowers and living leaves 
Before the wind or sun has wither'd them 
And semi-vital worms ; but he refused 
The birthright of their being, knowledge, power. 
The skill which wields the elements, the thought 
Which pierces the dim universe like light, 
Self-empire, and the majesty of love ; 
For thirst of which they fainted. Then Prometheus 
Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Jupiter. 
And with this law alone, " Let man be free," 
Clothed him with the dominion of wide Heaven. 
To know nor faith, nor love, nor law ; to be 
Omnipotent but friendless, is to reign ; 
And Jove now reign'd ; for on the race of man 
First famine and then toil, and then disease. 
Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen before. 
Fell ; and the unseasonable seasons drove. 
With alternating shafts of frost and fire, 
Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain caves : 
And in their desert hearts fierce wants he sent. 
And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle 
Of unreal good, which levied mutual war, 
So ruining the lair wherein they raged. 
Prometheus saw, and waked the legion'd hopes 
Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers. 
Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless blooms. 
That they might hide with thin and rainbow wings 
The shape of Death ; and Love he sent to bind 
The disunited tendrils of that vine 
Which bears the wine of life, the human heart ; 
And he tamed fire, which, like some beast of prey. 
Most terrible, but lovely, play'd beneath 
The frovm of man ; and tortured to his will 
Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of power. 
And gems and poisons, and all subtlest forms 
Hidden beneath the mountains and the waves. 
He gave man speech, and speech created thought. 
Which is the measure of the universe ; 
And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven, 
Which shook but fell not ; and the harmonious mind 
Pour'd itself forth in all-prophetic song ; 
And music lifted up the listening spirit 
Until it walk'd, exempt from mortal care, 
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Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound ; 

And human hands first mimick'd and then mock'd, 

With moulded limbs more lovely than its own, 

The human form, till marble grew divine ; 

And mothers, gazing, drank the love men see 

Reflected in their race, behold, and perish. 

He told the hidden power of herbs and springs, 

And Disease drank and slept Death grew like sleep. 

He taught the implicated orbits woven 

Of the wide-wandering stars; and how the sun 

Changes his lair, and by what secret spell 

The pale moon is transform'd, when her broad eye 

Gazes not on the interlunar sea : 

He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs, 

The tempest-winged chariots of the Ocean, 

And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then 

Were built, and through their snow-like columns flow'd 

The warm winds, and the azure ether shone. 

And the blue sea and shadowy hills were seen. 

Such, the alleviations of his state, 

Pi-ometheus gave to man, for which he hangs 

Withering in destined pain : but who rains down 

Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while 

Man looks on his creation like a God 

And sees that it is glorious, drives him on 

The wreck of his own will, the scorn of earth, 

The outcast, the abandon'd, the alone ? 

Not Jove : while yet his frown shook heaven, aye 

when 
His adversary from adamantine chains 
Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. Declare 
Who is his master ? Is he too a slave? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil : 
Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 

ASIA. 

Whom called'st thou God ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

I spoke but as ye speak, 
For Jove is the supreme of living things. 

ASIA. 

Who is the master of the slave ? 

DEMOGORGON, 

If the abysm 
Could vomit forth its secrets— But a voice 
Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless ; 
For what would it avail to bid thee gaze 
On the revolving world ? What to bid speak 
Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance and Change ? To these 
All things are subject but eternal Love. 

ASIA, 

So much I ask'd before, and my heart gave 
The response thou hast given ; and of such truths 
Each to itself must be the oracle. 
One more demand ; and do thou answer me 
As my own soul would answer, did it know 
That which I ask, Pronjethens shall arise 
Hencefprth the sun of this rejoicing world : 
When shall the destined hour arrive? 



DEMOGORGON, 



Behold! 



The rocks are cloven, and through the purple night 
I see cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds 
Which trample the dim winds : in each there stands 
A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. 
Some look behind, as fiends pursued thera there. 



And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars : 

Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink 

With eager lips the wind of their own speed, 

As if the thing they loved fled on before. 

And now, even now, they clasp'd it Their bright 

locks 
Stream like a comet's flashing hair : they all 
Sweep onward. 

DEMOGORGON. ' 

These are the immortal Hours, 
Of whom thou didst demand. One waits for thee. 

ASIA. 

A spirit with a dreadful countenance 

Checks its dark chariot by the craggy gulf. 

Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer. 

Who art thou? Whither wouldst thou bear me? Speak! 

SPIRIT. 

I am the shadow of a destiny 
More dread than is my aspect : ere yon planet 
Has set, the darkness which ascends with me 
Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's kingless throne. 



ASIA. 



Wliat meanest thou ? 



PANTHEA. 

That terrible shadow floats 
Up from its throne, as may the lurid smoke 
Of earthquake-ruin'd cities o'er the sea. 
Lo ! it ascends the car ; the coursers fly 
Terrified : watch its path among the stars 
Blackening the night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus I am answer'd: strange! 

PANTHEA. 

See, near the verge, another chariot stays ; 
An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire, 
Which comes and goes within its sculptured rim 
Of delicate strange tracery ; the young spirit 
That guides it has the dove-like eyes of hope ; 
How its soft smiles attract the soul ! as light 
Lures winged insects through the lampless air. 

SPIRIT. 

My coursers are fed with the lightning. 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream, 

And when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam ; 
They have strength for their swiftness I deem. 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

I desire : and their speed makes night kindle ; 
I fear : they outstrip the Typhoon ; 

Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 
We encircle the earth and the moon : 
We shall rest from long labors at noon : 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 



SCENE V. 



The Car pauses vAihin a Cloud on tJie Top of a snowy 
Mountain. Asia, Pan the a, and the Spirit of the 
Hour. 

SPIRIT. 

On the brink of the night and the morning 
My coursers are wont to respire ; 

But the Earth has just whisper'd a warning 
That their flight must be swifter than fire : 
They shall drink the hot speed of desire ! 
340 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



93 



Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my breath 
Would give them swifter speed. 



Alas ! it could not. 

PANTHEA. 

Oh Spirit! pause, and tell whence is the light 
Which fills the cloud ? the sun is yet unrisen. 

SPIRIT. 

The sun will rise not until noon. Apollo 
Is held in heaven by wonder ; and the light 
Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue 
Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, 
Flows from thy mighty sister. 



Yes, I feel — 



Wliat is it Avith tliee, sister ? Thou art pale. 



How thou art changed ! I dare not look on thee ; 

I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure 

The radiance of thy beauty. Some good change 

Is working in the elements, which suffer 

Thy presence thus unveil'd. The Nereids tell 

That on the day when the clear hyaline 

Was cloven at thy uprise, and thou didst stand 

Within a veined shell, which floated on 

Over the calm floor of the crystal sea. 

Among the Egean isles, and by the shores 

Which bear thy name ; love, like the atmosphere 

Of the sun's fire filling the living world. 

Burst from thee, and illumined earth and heaven 

And the deep ocean and the sunless caves 

And all that dwells within them ; till grief cast 

Eclipse upon the soul from which it came : 

Such art thou now ; nor is it I alone, 

Thy sister, thy companion, thine own chosen one, 

But the whole world which seeks thy sympathy. 

Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which speak the love 

Of all articulate beings ? Feelest thou not 

The inanimate winds enamor'd of thee ? List ! 

[Music. 

ASIA. 

Thy words are sweeter than aught else but his 
Whose echoes they are ; yet all love is sweet, 
Given or return'd. Common as light is love, 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air. 
It makes the reptile equal to the God : 
They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
As I am now ; but those who feel it most 
Are happier still, after long sufferings. 
As I shall soon become. 

PANTHEA. 

List ! Spirits, speak. 

VOICE (in the air, singing). 

Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them ; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air lire : then screen them 



In those looks, where whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! thy lips are burning 

Through the vest which seems to hide them ; 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds ere they divide them ; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 



Fair are others ; none beholds thee, 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 
From the sight, that liquid splendor, 

And all feel, yet see thee never, 

As I feel now, lost for ever ! 



Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness. 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds with lightness. 
Till they fail, as I am failing, 
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 



My soul is an enchanted boat, 
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; 
And thine doth like an angel sit 
Beside the helm conducting it. 
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. 
It seems to float ever, for ever. 
Upon that many-winding river. 
Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
A paradise of wildernesses! 
Till, like one in slumber bound, 
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, 
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound : 
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
In music's most serene dominions ; 
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. 
And we sail on, away, afar. 
Without a course, without a star, 
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven ; 
Till through Elysian garden islets 
By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
Where never mortal pinnace glided. 
The boat of my desire is guided : 
Realms where the air we breathe is love. 
Which in the winds on the waves doth move. 
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel abova 



We have pass'd Age's icy caves, 

And Manhood's dark and tossing waves. 
And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betra^ : 

Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 

Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day : 

A paradise of vaulted bowers 

Lit by downward-gazing flowers. 

And watery paths that wind between 

Wildernesses calm and green. 
Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 
And rest, having beheld ; somewhat like thee ; 
Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously • 
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Heaven. 



ACT in. 

SCENE I. 

Jupiter on his Throne ; Thetis and the 
other Deities assembled. 



JUPITER. 

Ye congregated powers of heaven, who share 

The glory and the strength of him ye serve, 

Rejoice ! henceforth I am omnipotent; 

All else had been subdued to me ; alone 

The soul of man, like an unextinguish'd fire. 

Yet burns towards heaven with fierce reproach, and 

doubt, 
And lamentation, and reluctant prayer, , 

Hurling up insurrection, which might make 
Our antique empire insecure, though built 
On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear ; 
And though my curses through the pendulous air, 
Xiike snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by flake. 
And cling to it ; though under my wrath's might 
It climb the crags of life, step after step. 
Which wound it, as ice wounds unsandall'd feet, 
It yet remains supreme o'er misery. 
Aspiring, unrepress'd, yet soon to fall : 
Even now have I begotten a strange wonder, 
That fatal child, the terror of the earth, 
Who waits but till the distant hour arrive, 
Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne 
The dreadful might of ever-living limbs 
Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld. 
To redescend, and trample out the spark. 
Pour forth heaven's wine, Idsean Ganymede, 
And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire. 
And from the flower-inwoven soil divine 
Ye all-triumphant harmonies arise. 
As dew from earth under the twilight stars : 
Drink ! be the nectar circling through your veins 
The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, 
Till exultation burst in one wide voice 
Like music from Elysian winds. 

And thou 
Ascend beside me, veiled in the light 
•Of the desire which makes thee one with me, 
Thetis, bright image of eternity ! 
When thou didst cry, " Insuflferable might ! 
God ! Spare me ! I sustain not the quick flames, 
The penetrating presence ; all my being, 
Like him whom the Numidian seps did thaw 
Into a dew with poison, is dissolved. 
Sinking through its foundations :" even then 
Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a third 
Mightier than either, which, unbodied now, 
Between us floats, felt, although unbeheld, 
Waiting the incarnation, which ascends, 
(Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels 
Griding the winds ?) from Demogorgon's throne. 
Victory ! victory ! Feel'st thou not, O world I 
The earthquake of his chariot thundering up 
Olympus ? 

[The Car of the Hour arrives. Demogorgon de- 
scends, and moves towards the Throne of Jupiter. 
Awful shape, what art thou ? Speak ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Etermty. Demand no direr name. 
Descend, and follow me down the abyss. 



I am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's child ; 
Mightier than thee : and we must dwell together 
Henceforth in darltness. Lift thy lightnings not. 
The tyranny of heaven none may retain, 
Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee : 
Yet if thou wilt, as 't is the destiny 
Of trodden worms to writhe till they are dead, 
Put forth thy might. 

JUPITER. 

Detested prodigy ! 
Even thus beneath the deep Titanian prisons 
I trample thee ! thou lingerest ? 

Mercy ! mercy ! 
No pity, no release, no respite! Oh, 
That thou wouldst make mine enemy my judge, 
Even where he hangs, sear'd by my long revenge 
On Caucasus ! he would not doom me thus. 
Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he not 
The monarch of the world ? What art thou ? 
No refuge ! no appeal ! 

Sink with me then. 
We two will sink on the wide waves of ruin. 
Even as a vulture and a snake outspent 
Drop, twisted in inextricable fight, 
Into a shoreless sea. Let hell unlock 
Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire, 
And whelm on them into the bottomless void 
This desolated world, and thee, and me. 
The conqueror and the conquer'd, and the wreck 
Of that for which they combated. 

Ai! Ai! 
The elements obey me not I sink 
Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. 
And, like a cloud, mine enemy above 
Darkens my fall with victory ! Ai, Ai ! 



SCENE II. 



The Mouth of a great river in the Island Atlantis. 
Ocean is discovered reclining near the Shore} 
Apollo stands beside him 

OCEAN. 

He fell, thou sayest, beneath his conqueror's frown ? 

APOLLO. 

Aye, when the strife was ended which made dim 

The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars. 

The terrors of his eye illumined heaven 

With sanguine light, through the thick ragged skirts 

Of the victorious darkness, as he fell : 

Like the last glare of day's red agony, 

Which, from a rent among the fiery clouds, 

Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. 

OCEAN. 

He sunk to the abyss ? To the dark void ? 

APOLLO. 

An eagle so caught in some bursting cloud 
On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings 
Entangled in the whirlwind, and his eyes 
Which gazed on the undazzling sun, now bhnded 
By the white hghtning, while the ponderous hail 
Beats on his struggling form, which sinks at length 
Prone, and the aerial ice clings over it. 

OCEAN. 

Henceforth the fields of Heaven-reflecting sea 
Which are my realm, will heave, unstain'd with 

blood, 
Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains of com. 
342 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



95 



Sway'd by the summer air ; my streams will flow 
Round many peopled continents, and round 
Fortunate isles ; and from their glassy thrones 
Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall mark 
The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see 
The floating bark of the light-laden moon 
With that white star, its sighrtess pilot's crest, 
Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea ; 
Tracking their path no more by blood and groans, 
And desolation, and the mingled voice 
Of slavery and command ; but by the light 
Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating odors. 
And music soft, and mild, free, gentle voices. 
That sweetest music, such as spirits love. 

APOLLO. 

And I shall gaze not on the deeds which make 
My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse 
Darkens the sphere I guide ; but list, I hear 
The small, clear, silver lute of the young Spirit 
That sits on the morning star. 

OCEAN. 

Thou must away ; 
Thy steeds will pause at even, till when farewell : 
The loud deep calls me home even now to feed it 
With azure calm out of the emerald urns 
Which stand for ever full beside my throne. 
Behold the Nereids under the green sea, 
Their wavering limbs borne on the wind-like stream, 
Their white arms lifted o'er their streaming hair 
Wiih garlands pied and starry sea-flower crowns. 
Hastening to grace their mighty sister's joy. 

[A sound of waves is heard. 
It is the unpastured sea hungering for calm. 
Peace, monster; I come now. Farewell. 

APOLLO. 

Farewell 



SCENE III. 



Caucasus. Prometheus, Hercules, Ione, the Earth, 
Spirits, Asia, and Panthea, borne in the Car with 
the Spirit of the Hour. 

Hercules unbinds Prometheus, who descends. 

HERCULES. 

Most glorious among spirits ! thus doth strength 
To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering love, 
And thee, who art the form they animate, 
Minister like a slave. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy gentle words 
Are sweeter even than freedom long desired 
And long delay'd. 

Asia, thou light of life. 
Shadow of beauty unbeheld : and ye, 
Fair sister nymphs, who made long years of pain 
Sweet to remember, through your love and care : 
Henceforth we will not part. There is a cave, 
All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, 
Which curtain out the day with leaves and flowers. 
And paved with veined emerald, and a fountain 
Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound. 
From its curved roof the mountain's frozen tears 
Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires, 
Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light : 
And there is heard the ever-moving air, 



Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds, 

And bees ; and all around are mossy seats, 

And the rough walls are clothed with long soft grass; 

A simple dwelling, which shall be our own ; 

Where we will sit and talk of time and change. 

As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves unchanged. 

What can hide man from mutability ? 

And if ye sigh, then I will smile; and thou, 

lone, shalt chant fragments of sea-music. 

Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 

The tears she brought, which yet were sweet to shed 

We will entangle buds and flowers and beams 

Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and make 

Strange combinations out of common things. 

Like human babes in their brief innocence ; 

And we will search, with looks and words of love 

For hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the last, 

Our unexhausted spirits ; and like lutes 

Touch'd by the skill of the enamor'd wind. 

Weave harmonies divine, yet ever new. 

From difference sweet where discord cannot be ; 

And hither come, sped on the charmed winds, 

Which meet from all the points of Heaven, as bees 

From every flower aerial Enna feeds, 

At their known island-homes in Himera, 

The echoes of the human world, which tell 

Of the low voice of love, almost unheard, 

And dove-eyed pity's murmur'd pain, and music, 

liself the echo of the heart, and all 

That tempers or improves man's life, now free ; 

And lovely apparitions, dim at first, 

Then radiant, as the mind, arising bright 

From the embrace of beauty, whence the forms 

Of which these are the phantoms, casts on them 

The gather'd rays which are reality. 

Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 

Of Painting, Sculpture, and wrapt Poesy, 

And arts, though unimagined, yet to be. 

The wandering voices and the shadows these 

Of all that man becomes, the mediators 

Of that best worship love, by him and us 

Given and return'd ; swift shapes and sounds, which 

grovv 
More fair and soft as man grows wise and kind. 
And veil by veil, evil and error fall : 
Such virtue has the cave and place around. 

[Turning to the Spirit of the Hour. 
For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. lone, 
Give her that curved shell, which Proteus old 
Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within it 
A voice to be accomplish'd, and which thou 
Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. 



Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovely 
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic shell; 
See the pale azure fading into silver 
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light : 
Looks it not like lull'd music sleeping there ? 

spirit. 
It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean : 
Its sound must be at once both sweet and strange. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Go, borne over the cities of mankind 
On whirlwind-footed coursers : once again 
Outspeed the sun around the orbed world ; 
And as thy chariot cleaves the Idndling air, 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, 
Loosening its mighty music ; it shall be 
As thunder mingled with clear echoes : then 
Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. 
And thou, O, Mother Earth! — 

THE EARTH. 

I hear, I feel ; 
Thy lips are on me, and thy touch runs down 
Even to the adamantine central gloom 
Along these marble nerves; 'tis life, 'tis joy, 
And through my wither'd, old, and icy frame 
The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down 
Circling. Henceforth the many children fair 
Folded in my sustaining arms ; all plants, 
And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-wing'd. 
And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes. 
Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom, 
Draining the poison of despair, shall take 
And interchange sweet nutriment ; to me 
Shall they become like sister-antelopes 
By one fair dam, snow-white and swift as wind, 
Nursed among lilies near a brimming stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall float 
Under the stars like balm : night-folded flowers 
Shall suck unwitting hues in their repose : 
And men and beasts in happy dreams shall gather 
Strength for the coming day, and all its joy : 
And death shall be the last embrace of her 
Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother 
Folding her child, says, " Leave me not again." 

ASIA. 

Oh, mother ! wherefore speak the name of death ? 
Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, and speak; 
Who die? 

THE EARTH. 

It would avail not to reply: 
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is knovim 
But to the uncommunicating dead. 
Death is the veil which those who live call life : 
They sleep, and it is lifted : and meanwhile 
In mild variety the seasons mild 
With rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous winds. 
And long blue meteors cleansing the dull night. 
And the life-kindling shafts of the keen sun's 
All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled rain 
Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence mild. 
Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay, even 
The crag-built deserts of the barren deep. 
With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and flowers. 
And thou ! There is a cavern where my spirit 
Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy pain 
Made my heart mad, and those that did inhale it 
Became mad too, and built a temple there. 
And spoke, and were oracular, and lured 
The erring nations round to mutual war. 
And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with thee ; 
Which breath now rises, as amongst tall weeds 
A violet's exhalation, and it fills 
With a serener light and crimson air 
Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods around ; 
It feeds the quick growth of the serpent vine. 
And the dark-link'd ivy tangling wild, 
And budding, blown, or odor-faded blooms 
Which star the winds with points of eolor'd light, 
As they rain through them, and bright golden globes 
Of fruit, suspended in their own green Heaven, 



And through their veined leaves and amber stems 
The flowers whose purple and translucid bowls 
Stand ever mantling with aerial dew, 
The drink of spirits : and it circles round, 
Like the soft waving wings of noonday dreams, 
Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like mine, 
Now thou art thus restored. This cave is thine. 
Arise!. Appear! 

[A Spirit rises in the likeness of a winged child 
This is my torch-bearer ; 
Who let his lamp out in old time with gazing 
On eyes from which he kindled it anew 
With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter mine. 
For such is that within thine own. Run, wayward, 
And guide this company beyond the peak 
Of Bacchic Nysa, Maenad-haunted mountain, 
And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, 
Tramphng the torrent streams and glassy lakes 
With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying. 
And up the green ravine, across the vale. 
Beside the windless and crystalline pool, 
Where ever lies, on unerasing waves, 
The image of a temple, built above, 
Distinct wdth column, arch, and architrave, 
And palm-like capital, and over-wrought. 
And populous most with living imagery, 
Praxitelean shapes, whose marble smiles 
Fill the hush'd air with everlasting love. 
It is deserted now, but once it bore 
Thy name, Prometheus ; there the emulous youths 
Bore to thy honor through the divine gloom 
The lamp which was thine emblem ; even as those 
Who bear the untransmitted torch of hope 
Into the grave, across the night of life. 
As thou hast borne it most triumphantly 
To this far goal of Time. Depart, farewell. 
Beside that temple is the destined cave. 



SCENE IV. 



A Forest. In the hack-ground a Cave. Prometheus, 
Asia, Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the 
Earth. 

IONE. 

Sister, it is not earthly : how it glides 
Under the leaves ! how on its head there bums 
A light, like a green star, whose emerald beams 
Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as it moves. 
The splendor drops in flakes upon the grass ! 
Knowest thou it ? 

panthea. 
It is the delicate spirit 
That guides the earth through Heaven. From afar 
The populous constellations call that light 
The loveliest of the planets ; and sometimes 
It floats along the spray of the salt sea. 
Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud. 
Or walks through fields or cities while men sleep, 
Or o'er the mountain-tops, or down the rivei-s, 
Or through the green waste wilderness, as now 
Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove reign'd, 
It loved our sister Asia, and it came 
Each leisure hour to drink the liquid light 
Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted 
As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
It made its childish confidence, and told her 
344 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



97 



All it had known or seen, for it saw much, 
Yet idly reason'd what it saw ; and call'd her, 
For whence it sprung it knew not, nor do I, 
Mother, dear mother. 

THE SPIRIT OF THE EARTH {running tO AsIA). 

Mother, dearest mother ; 
May I then talk with thee as I was wont ? 
May I then hide my eyes in thy soft arms. 
After thy looks have made them tired of joy ? 
May I then play beside thee the long noons. 
When work is none in the bright silent air ? 



I love thee, gentlest being ! and henceforth 
Can cherish thee unenvied : speak, I pray : 
Thy simple talk once solaced, now delights. 

SPIRIT OP THE EARTH. 

Mother, I am grown wiser, though a child 
Cannot be wise like thee, within this day ; 
And happier too ; happier and wiser bofli. 
Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and lothely 

worms. 
And venomous and malicious beasts, and boughs 
That bore ill berries in the woods, were ever 
A hindrance to my walks o'er the green world : 
And that, among the haunts of human-kind, 
Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry looks, 
Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow smiles, 
Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance, 
Or other such foul masks, with which ill thoughts 
Hide that fair being whom we spirits call man ; 
And women too, ugliest of all things evil 
(Though fair, even in a world where thou art fair, 
When good and kind, free and sincere like thee), 
When false or frowning made me sick at heart 
To pass them, though they slept, and I unseen. 
Well, my path lately lay through a great city 
Into the woody hills surrounding it : 
A sentinel was sleeping at the gate : 
When there was heard a sound, so loud, it shook 
The towers amid the moonlight, yet more sweet 
Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all ; 
A long, long sound, as it would never end : 
And all the inhabitants leapt suddenly 
Out of their rest, and gather'd in the streets, 
Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while yet 
The music peal'd along. I hid myself 
Within a fountain in the public square, 
Where I lay like the reflex of the moon 
Seen in a wave under green leaves : and soon 
Those ugly human shapes and visages 
i Of which I spoke as having wrought me pain, 
j Past floating through the air, and fading still 
Into the winds that scatter'd them ; and those 
From whom they past seem'd mild and lovely forms 
After some foul disguise had fallen, and all 
Were somewhat changed, and after brief surprise 
And greetings of delighted wonder, all 
Went to their sleep again ; and when the dawn 
Came, wouldst thou think that toads, and snakes, and 

efts. 
Could e'er be beautiful ? yet so they were, 
And that with little change of shape or hue : 
All things had put their evil nature oflf: 
I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake 
Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined, 
I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward 
2T 



And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries, 
With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay 
Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky ; 
So with my thoughts full of these happy changes, 
We meet again, the happiest change of all. 

ASIA. 

And never will we part, till thy chaste sister 
Who guides the frozen and inconstant moon 
Will look on thy more warm and equal light 
Till her heart thaw like flakes of April snow 
And love thee. 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH. 

What ! as Asia loves Prometheus 1 



Peace, wanton : thou art yet not old enough. 
Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes 
To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
With sphered fires the interlunar air ? 

SPIRIT OF THE EARTH. 

Nay, mother, while my sister trims her lamp, 
'Tis hard I should go darkling. 

ASIA. 

Listen; look! 
The Spirit of the Hour enters. 

PROMETHEUS. 

We feel what thou hast heard and seen : yet speak. 

SPIRIT OF THE HOUR. 

Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder fill'd 
The abysses of the sky and the wide earth. 
There was a change : the impalpable thin air 
And the all-circling sunlight were transform'd. 
As if the sense of love dissolved in them 
Had folded itself round the sphered world. 
My vision then grew clear, and I could see 
Into the mysteries of the universe : 
Dizzy as with delight I floated down. 
Winnowing the lightsome air wdth languid plumes 
My coursers sought their birth-place in the sun. 
Where they henceforth will live exempt from toil 
Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire. 
And where my moonlike car will stand within 
A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 
Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me. 
And you fair nymphs looking the love we feel ; 
In memory of the tidings it has borne ; 
Beneath a dome fretted with graven flowers, 
Poised on twelve columns of resplendent stone, 
And open to the bright and liquid sky. 
Yoked to it by an amphisbenic snake. 
The likeness of those winged steeds will mock 
The light from which they find repose. Alas, 
Whither has wander'd now my partial tongue 
When all remains untold which ye would hear ? 
As I have said, I floated to the earth : 
It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
To move, to breathe, to be ; I wandering went 
Among the haunts and dwellings of mankind. 
And first was disappointed not to see 
Such mighty change as I had felt within 
Express'd in outward things ; but soon I look'd, 
And behold, thrones were kingless, and men walk'd 
One with the other even as spirits do. 
None favm'd, none trampled ,• hate, disdain, or fear, 
Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows 
No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



*' All hope abandon ye who enter here ; " 

None frown'd, none trembled, none with eager fear 

Gazed on another's eye of cold command, 

Until the subject of a tyrant's will 

Became, worse fate, the abject of his own, 

Which spurr'd him, like an oulspent horse, to death. 

None wrought his lips in truth-entangling lines 

Which smiled the lie his tongue disdain'd to speak ; 

None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own heart 

The sparks of love and hope till there remain'd 

Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed, 

And the wretch crept a vampire among men, 

Infecting all with his own hideous ill ; 

None talk'd that common, false, cold, hollow talk 

Which makes the heart deny the yes it breathes, 

Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 

With such a self-mistrust as has no name. 

And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind 

As the free heaven which rains fresh light and dew 

On the wide earth, past ; gentle, radiant forms, 

From custom's evil taint exempt and pure ; 

Speaking the wisdom once they could not think, 

Looking emotions once they fear'd to feel. 

And changed to all which once they dared not be. 

Yet being now, made earth like heaven j nor pride, 

Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, 

The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall, 

Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love. 

Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and prisons; wherein, 
And beside which, by wretched men were borne 
Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes 
Of reason'd wrong, glozed on by ignorance. 
Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes, 
The ghosts of a no more remember'd fame. 
Which, from their unworn obelisks, look forth 
In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 
Of those who were their conquerors : mouldering 

round 
Those imaged to the pride of kings and priests, 
A dark yet mighty faith, a power as vdde 
As is the world it wasted, and are now 
But an astonishment ; even so the tools 
And emblems of its last captivity. 
Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth, 
Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now. 
And those foul shapes, abhorr'd by god and man, 
Which, under many a name and many a form 
Strange, savage, ghastly, dark, and execrable, 
Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world ; 
And which the nations, panic-stricken, served 
With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, and love 
Dragg'd to his altars soil'd and garlandless. 
And slain among men's unreclaiming tears. 
Flattering the thing they fear'd, which fear was hate, 
Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandon'd shrines : 
The painted veil, by those who were, call'd life. 
Which mimick'd, as with colors idly spread. 
All men believed and hoped, is torn aside ; 
The lothesome mask has fallen, the man remains 
Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man 
Equal, unclass'd, tribeless, and nationless. 
Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king 
Over himself; just, gentle, wise : but man 
Passionless ; not yet free from guilt or pain? 
Which were, for his will made or suffer'd them. 
Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, 



From chance, and death, and mutability, 
The clogs of that which else might oversoar 
The loftiest star of unascended heaven, 
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. 



ACT IV. 

Scene— A part of the Forest near the Cam of Pro- 
metheus. Panthea and Ione are sleeping ; they 
awaken gradually during the first Song. 

VOICE OF UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The pale stars are gone ! 
For the sun, their swift shepherd. 
To their fold them compelling. 
In the depths of the dawn. 
Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee 
Beyond his blue dwelling. 
As fawns flee the leopard, 
But where are ye ? 

A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by con- 
fusedly, singing. 

Here, oh ! here : 

We bear the bier 
Of the Father of many a canceU'd year! 

Spectres we 

Of the dead Hours be. 
We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. 

Strew, oh ! strew 

Hair, not yew ! 
Wet the dusky pall with tears, not dew ! 

Be the faded flowers 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the Bang of Hours ! 

Haste, oh, haste ! 

As shades are chased, 
Trembling, by day, from Heaven's blue waste. 

We melt away. 

Like dissolving spray, 
From the children of a diviner day, 

With the lullaby 

Of winds that die 
On the bosom of their own harmony ! 

IONE. 

What dark ibrms were they ? 



The past Hours weak and gray, 
With the spoil which their toil 

Raked together 
From the conquest but One could foil. 

lONE. 

Have they past ? 

PANTHEA. 

They have past ; 
They outspeeded the blast. 
While 'tis said, they are fled: 



lONE. 

Whither, oh! whither? 



346 



PROIMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



PANTHEA. 

To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 

VOICE OF UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

Bright clouds float in heaven, 
Dew-stars gleam on earth, 
Waves assemble on ocean, 
They are gather'd and driven 
By the storm of delight, by the panic of glee ! 
They shake with emotion. 
They dance in their mirth. 
But where are ye ? 

The pine-boughs are singing 
Old songs with new gladness ; 
The billows and fountains 
Fresh music are flinging, 
Like the notes of a spirit from land and from sea 
The storms mock the mountains 
With the thunder of gladness. 
But where are ye ? 

lONE. 

What charioteers are these ? 

PANTHEA. 

Where are their chariots ? 

SEMICHORUS OF HOURS. 

The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Earth 
Has drawn back the figured curtain of sleep 
Which cover'd our being and darken'd our birth 
In the deep. 

A VOICE. 

In the deep ? 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Oh ! below the deep. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

A hundred ages we had been kept 
Cradled in \ isions of hate and care. 
And each one who waked as his brother slept. 
Found the truth — 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Worse than his visions were ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep ; 
We have known the voice of Ix)ve in dreams, 
We have felt the wand of Power, and leap — 

SEMICHORUS II. 

As the billows leap in the morning beams ! 

CHORUS. 

Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze. 
Pierce with song heaven's silent light, 

Enchant the day that too swiftly flees. 
To check its flight ere the cave of night. 

Once the hungry Hours were hounds 

Which chased the day like a bleeding deer. 

And it limp'd and stumbled with many wounds 
Through the nightly dells of the desert year. 



But now, oh ! weave the mystic measure 
Of music, and dance, and shapes of light, ; 

Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and pleasure, 
Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 

A VOICE. 

Unite. 

PANTHEA. 

See, where the Spirits of the human mind 

Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach. 

CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

We join the throng 

Of the dance and the song, 
By the whirlwind of gladness borne along ; 

As the flying-fish leap 

From the Indian deep. 
And mix with the sea-birds, half-asleep. 

CHORUS OF HOURS. 

Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet. 
For sandals of lightning are on your feet. 
And your wings are soft and swift as thought. 
And your eyes are as love which is veiled not ? 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 

We come from the mind 

Of human-kind. 
Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind ; 

Now 'tis an ocean 

Of clear emotion, 
A heaven of serene and mighty motion. 

From that deep abyss 

Of wonder and bliss. 
Whose caverns are crystal palaces ; 

From those skiey towers 

Where Thought's crowned powers 
Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours ! 

From the dim recesses 

Of woven caresses, 
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses ; 

From the azure isles 

Where sweet Wisdom smiles, 
Delaying your ships with her syren Aviles. 

From the temples high 

Of Man's ear and eye. 
Roof 'd over Sculpture and Poesy ; 

From the murmurings 

Of the unseal'd springs 
Where Science bedews his Daedal wings. 

Years after years, 

Through blood, and tears. 
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears ; 

We waded and flew, 

And the islets were few 
Where the bud-bhghted flowers of happmess grew. 

Our feet now, every palm. 

Are sandall'd with calm, 
And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm : 

And, beyond our eyes, 

The human love lies 
Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. 
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100 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS AND HOURS. 

Then weave the web of the mystic measure ; 
From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth, 

Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure, 
Fill the dance and the music of mirth, 

As the waves of a thousand streams rush by 

To an ocean of splendor and harmony ! 

CHORUS OP SPIRITS. 

Our spoil is won. 

Our task is done, 
We are free to dive, or soar, or run ; 

Beyond and around. 

Or within the bound 
Which clips the world with darkness round. 

We'll pass the eyes 

Of the starry skies 
Into the hoar deep to colonize : 

Death, Chaos, and Night, 

From the sound of our flight. 
Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might. 

And Earth, Air, and Light, 

And the Spirit of Might, 
Which drives round the stars in their fiery flight ; 

And Love, Thought, and Breath, 

The powers that quell Death, 
Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath. 

And our singing shall build 

In the void's loose field 
A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield ; 

We will take our plan 

From the new world of man. 
And our work shall be call'd the Promethean. 

CHORUS OF HOURS. 

Break the dance, and scatter the song ; 
Let some depart, and some remain. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We, beyond heaven, are driven along : 

SRMICHORUS II. 

Us the enchantments of earth retain : 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free, 

With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea, 

And a heaven where yet heaven could never be. 

SKMICHORUS II. 

Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, 
Leading the Day and outspeeding the Night, 
With the powers of a world of perfect light. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere, 
Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear 
From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth, 
And the happy forms of its death and birth 
Change to the music of our sweet mirth. 



CHORUS OF HOURS AND SPIRITS. 

Break the dance, and scatter the song, 
Let some depart, and some remain ; 
Wherever we fly we lead along 
In le^ishes, like star-beams, soft yet strong. 

The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain 

PANTHEA. 

Ha I they are gone ! 

TONE. 

Yet feel you no delight 
From the past sweetness ? 

PANTHEA. 

As the bare green hill 
When some soft cloud vanishes into rain. 
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water 
To the unpavilion'd sky ! 

10 NE. 

Even whilst we speak 
New notes arise. What is that awful sound ? 

PANTHEA. 

'Tis the deep music of the rolling world, 
Kindling within the strings of the waved air 
iEolian modulations. 

lONE. 

Listen too. 
How every pause is fill'd with under-notes, 
Clear, silver, icy, keen awakening tones. 
Which pierce the sense, and live within the soul. 
As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal air 
And gaze upon themselves within the sea. 

PANTHEA. 

But see where, through two openings in the forest 
Which hanging branches over-canopy, 
And where two runnels of a rivulet, 
Between the close moss violet inwoven, 
Have made their path of melody, like sisters 
Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles 
Turning their dear disunion to an isle 
Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts ; 
Two visions of strange radiance float upon 
The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound. 
Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet 
Under the ground and through the windless air. 

lONE. 

I see a chariot like that thinnest boat 
In which the mother of the months is borne 
By ebbing night into her western cave. 
When she upsprings from interlunar dreams. 
O'er which is curved an orblike canopy 
Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods 
Distinctly seen through that dusk airy veil. 
Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass ; 
Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, 
Such as the genii of the thunder-storm 
Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 
When the sun rushes under it ; they roll 
And move and grow as with an inward wind ; 
Within it sits a winged infant, white 
Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow, 
Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost. 
Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds 
Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. 
Its hair is white, the brightness of white light 
Scatter'd in strings ; yet its two eyes are heavens 
Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 
348 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



101 



Within seems pouring, as a storm is pour'd 

From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy lashes, 

Tempering the cold and radiant air around. 

With fire that is not brightness ; in its hand 

It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point 

A guiding power directs the chariot's prow 

Over its wheeled clouds, which as they roll 

Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds 

Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. 



And from the other opening in the wood 

Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, 

A 'sphere, which is as many thousand spheres, 

Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass 

Flow, as through empty space, music and light : 

Ten thousand orbs involving and involved. 

Purple and azure, white, green, and golden. 

Sphere within sphere ; and every space between 

Peopled with unimaginable shapes, 

Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep, 

Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl 

Over each other with a thousand motions, 

Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning. 

And with the force of self-destroying swiftness. 

Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on. 

Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones, 

Intelligible words and music wild. 

With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb 

Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist 

Of elemental subtlety, like light ; 

And the wild odor of the forest flowers, 

The music of the living grass and air. 

The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams 

Round its intense yet self conflicting speed, 

Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 

WTiich drowns the sense. Within the orb itself, 

Pillow'd upon its alabaster arms. 

Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, 

On its own folded wings, and wavy hair. 

The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 

And you can see its little lips are moving. 

Amid the changing light of their own smiles, 

Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. 

lONE. 

'Tis only mocking the orb's harmony. 

PANTHEA. 

And from a star upon its forehead, shoot. 

Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears 

With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined. 

Embleming heaven and earth united now. 

Vast beams like spoke of some invisible wheel 

Wliich whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought) 

Filling the abyss with sunlike lightnings. 

And perpendicular now, and now transverse. 

Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass. 

Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart ; 

Infinite mine of adamant and gold. 

Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, 

And caverns on crystalline columns poised 

With vegetable silver overspread ; 

Wells of unfathom'd fire, and water springs 

Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed, 

Whose vapors clothe earth's monarch mountain-tops 

With kingly, ermine snow. The beams flash on 

And make appear the melancholy ruins 

Of cancell'd cycles ; anchors, beaks of ships ; 



Planks turn'd to marble ; quivers, helms, and spears. 

And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels 

Of scythed chariots, and the emblazonry 

Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts, 

Round which death laugh'd, sepulchred emblems 

Of dread destruction, ruin within ruin ! 

The wrecks beside of many a city vast. 

Whose population which the earth grew over 

Was mortal, but not human ; see, they lie 

Their monstrous works, and tmcouth skeletons. 

Their statues, domes and fanes ; prodigious shapes 

Huddled in gray annihilation, spht, 

Jamm'd in the hard, black deep ; and over these, 

The anatomies of unknown winged things. 

And fishes which were isles of living scale. 

And serpents, bony chains, twisted around 

The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 

To which the torturous strength of their last pangs 

Had crush'd the iron crags ; and over these 

The jagged alligator, and the might 

Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once 

Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores. 

And weed-overgrown continents of earth, 

Increased and multiplied like summer worms 

On an abandon'd corpse, till the blue globe 

Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and they 

Yell'd, gasp'd, and were abolish'd ; or some God 

Whose throne was in a comet, past, and cried. 

Be not ! And hke my words they were no more. 

THE EARTH. 

The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness ! 

The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness. 

The vaporous exultation not to be confined ! 
Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight 
Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light. 

And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind. 

THE MOON. 

Brother mine, calm wanderer, 

Happy globe of land and air. 
Some Spirit is darted like a beam from thee, 

Which penetrates my frozen frame. 

And passes with the warmth of flame. 
With love, and odor, and deep melody 

Through me, through me ! 

THE EARTH. 

Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my hollow mountains. 
My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting fountains, 
Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable laughter. 
The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses. 
And the deep air's unmeasured wildernesses. 
Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing after. 

They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse. 
Who all our green and azure universe 
Threaten'dst to muflEle romid with black destruction, 
sending 
A solid cloud to rain hot thimder-stones, 
And splinter and knead down ray children's bones. 
All I bring forth, to one void mass battering and 
blending. 

Until each crag-like tower, and storied column. 
Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn, 
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102 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My imperial mountains crown'd with cloud, and snoW; 
and fire ; 
My sea-like forests, every blade and blossom 
Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom, 

Were stamp'd by thy strong hate into a lifeless mire, 

How art thou sunk, withdrawn, cover'd, drunk up 

By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup 
Drain'd by a desert troop, a little drop for all ; 

And from beneath, around, within, above, 

Filling thy void annihilation, love 
Bursts in like light on caves cloven by thunder-ball. 

THE MOON. 

The snow upon my lifeless mountains 
Is loosen'd into living fountains, 
My solid oceans flow, and sing, and shine : 
A spirit from my heart bursts forth, 
It clothes with unexpected birth 
My cold bare bosom : Oh ! it must be thine 
On mine, on mine ! 

Gazing on thee I feel, I know 
Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers 
grow, 
And living shapes upon my bosom move : 
Music is in the sea and air. 
Winged clouds soar here and there, 
Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of: 
'Tis love, all love! 

THE EARTH. 

It interpenetrates my granite mass, 
Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pasSj 
» Into the utmost leaves, and delicatest flowers ; 
Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis spread. 
It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, 
They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest bowers, 

And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison 
With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen 
Out of the lampless caves of unimagined being : 
With earthquake shock and swiftness making 

shiver 
Thought's stagnant chaos, unreraoved for ever. 
Till hate, and fear and pain, light-vanquish'd shadows, 
fleeing. 

Leave man, who was a many-sided mirror, 
Which could distort to many a shape of error, 

This true fair world of things, a sea reflecting love ; 
Which over all liis kind, as the sun's heaven 
Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and even 

Darting from starry depths radiance and light, doth 



Leave man, even as a leprous child is left. 
Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft 

Of rocks, through which the might of healing springs 
is pour'd ; 
Then when it wanders home with rosy smile. 
Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile 

It is a spirit, then weeps on her child restored. 

Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked thought. 

Of love and might to be divided not, 
Compelling the elements with adamantine stress ; 

As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's gaze. 

The unquiet republic of the maze 
Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free 
wilderness. 



Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, 

Whose nature is its own divine control, 
Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea ; 

Familiar acts are beautiful through love ; 

Labor, and pain, and yrief, in life's green grove 
Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they 
could be ! 

His will, with all mean passions, bad delights 
And selfish cares, its trembling satelUtes, 

A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey, 

Is as a tempest-winged ship, whose helm 
Love rules, through waves which dare not over- 
whelm, 

Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway. 

All things confess his strength. Through the 

cold mass 
Of marble and of color his dreams pass ; 
Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their 
children wear ; 
Language is a perpetual orphic song. 
Which rules with Daedal harmony a throng 
Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shape- 
less were. 

The lightning is his slave ; heaven's utmost deep 
Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep 

They pass before his eye, are number'd, and roll on* 
The tempest is his steed, he strides the air 
And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare. 

Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man unveils me j I have 
none. 

THE MOON. 

The shadow of white death has past 

From my path in heaven at last, 
A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep; 

And through my newly-woven bowers. 

Wander happy paramours. 
Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep 
■Thy vales more deep. 

THE EARTH. 

As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold 
A half-infrozen dew-globe, green, and gold, 

And crystalline, till it becomes a winged mist. 
And wanders up the vault of the blue day, 
Outlives the noon, and on the sun's last ray 

Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst. 

THE MOON. 

Thou art folded, thou art lying 

In the light which is undying 
Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile divine ] 

All suns and constellations shower 

On thee a light, a hfe, a power 
Which doth array thy sphere ; thou pourest thine 

On mine, on mine ! 

THE EARTH. 

I spin beneath my pyramid of night. 
Which points into the heavens dreaming delight 
Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted sleep ; 
As a youth luU'd in love-dreams faintly sighing. 
Under the shadow of his beauty lying. 
Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth 
doth keep. 

350 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND. 



103 



THE MOON. 

As in the soft and sweet eclipse. 

When soul meets soul on lovers' lips, 
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull ; 

So when thy shadow falls on me, 

Then am I mute and still, by thee 
Cover'd ; of thy love, Orb most beautiful, 

Full, oh ! too full ! 

Thou art speeding round the sun, 

Brightest world of many a one ; 

Green and azure sphere which shinest 

With a light which is divinest 

Among all the lamps of Heaven 

To whom life and light is given; 

I, thy crystal paramour 

Borne beside thee by a power 

Like the polar Paradise, 

Magnet-like, of lovers' eyes ; 

I, a most enamour'd maiden, 

Whose weak brain is overladen 

With the pleasure of her love, 

Maniac-like aroimd thee move 

Gazing, an insatiate bride, 

On thy form from every side 

Like a M^nad, round the cup 

Which Agave lifted up 

In the weird Cadmaean forest. 

Brother, wheresoe'er thou soarest 

I must hurry, whirl and follow 

Through the Heavens wide and hollow, 

Shelter'd by the warm embrace 

Of thy soul from hungry space, 

Dnnking from thy sense and sight 

Beauty, majesty, and might, 

As a lover or a cameleon 

Grows like what it looks upon. 

As a violet's gentle eye 

Gazes on the azure sky 
Until its hue grows like what it beholds, 

As a gray and watery mist 

Glows like solid amethyst 
Athwart the western mountain it infolds. 

When the sunset sleeps 
Upon its snow. 

THE EARTH. 

And the weak day weeps 

That it should be so. 
Oh, gentle Moon ! the voice of thy delight 
Falls on me like thy clear and tender light 
Soothing the seaman, borne the summer night 

Through isles for ever calm ; 
Oh, gentle Moon ! thy crystal accents pierce 
The caverns of my pride's deep universe, 
Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings fierce 

Made wounds which need thy balm. 



I rise as from a bath of sparkling water, 
A bath of azure light, among dark rocks. 
Out of the stream of sound. 

lONE. 

Ah me! sweet 
The stream of sound has ebb'd away from us. 
And you pretend to rise put of its wave, 



Because your words fall like the clear, soft dew 
Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's limbs and hair 

PANTHEA. 

Peace ! peace ! A mighty Power, which is as darkness 
Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 
Is shower'd like night, and from within the air 
Bursts, like eclipse which had been gather'd up 
Into the pores of sunlight : the bright visions, 
Wherein the singing spirits rode and shone. 
Gleam like pale meteors through a watery night. 



There is a sense of words upon mine ear. 

PANTHEA. 

A universal sound like words : Oh, list ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul ! 

Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, 
Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost roll 

The love which paves thy path along the 

THE EARTH. 

I hear : I am as a drop of dew that dies. 



DEMOGORGON. 

Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth 

With wonder, as it gazes upon thee ; 
Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift birth 

Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony : 

THE MOON. 

I hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye kings of suns and stars ! Demons and Gods, 

Ethereal Dominations ! who possess 
Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 

Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness : 

A VOICE FROM ABOVE. 

Our great Republic hears: we are blest, and bless. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye happy dead ! whom beams of brightest verse 
Are clouds to hide, not colors to portray. 

Whether your nature is that universe 
Which once ye saw and suffer'd — 

A VOICE FROM BENEATH. 

Or as they 
Whom we have left, we change and pass away 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 

From man's high mind even to the central stone 

Of sullen lead ; from Heaven's star-fretted domes 
To the dull weed some sea-worm battens on 

A CONFUSED VOICE. 

We hear: thy words waken Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Spirits ! whose homes are flesh ; ye beasts and birds, 
Ye worms, and fish ; ye living leaves and buds ; 

Lightnmg and wind ; and ye imtamable herds, 
Meteors and mists, which throng air's solitudes: 
351 



104 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A VOICE. 

Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Man, who wert once a despot and a slave ; 

A dupe and a deceiver; a decay; 
A traveller from the cradle to the grave, 

Through the dim night of this immortal day : 

ALL. 

Speak! thy strong words may never pass away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

This is the day, which down the void abysm 

Ai the Earth-bom's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism. 

And Conquest is dragg'd captive through the deep ; 
Love, from its awful throne of patient power 
In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour 

Of dead endurance, from the slippery, steep, 
And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs 
And folds over the world its healing wings. 



Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, 
These are the seals of that most firm assurance 

Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength ; 
And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 
Mother of many acts and hours, should free 

The serpent that would clasp her with his lengl* 
These are the spells by which to reassume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite ; 
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; 

To defy Power, which seems omnipotent ; 
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates 
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates ; 

Neither to change, nor flatter, nor repent ; 
This, like thy glory. Titan ! is to be 
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free ; 
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. 



i^uttn JWa^Ki* 



I. 

How wonderful is Death, 

Death and his brother Sleep! 
One, pale as yonder waning moon, 

With lips of lurid blue ; 
The other, rosy as the mom 

When, throned on ocean's wave, 

It blushes o'er the world : 
Yet both so passing wonderful ! 

Hath then the gloomy Power 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres 
Seized on her sinless soul ? 
Must then that peerless form 
Which love and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, those azure veins 
Which steal like streams along a field of snow, 
That lovely outline, which is fair 
As breathing marble, perish? 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 

But lothesomeness and ruin ? 
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme, 
On which the lightest heart might moralize ? 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 

Stealing o'er sensation, 
Which the breath of roseate morning 
Chaseth into darkness ? 
Will lanthe wake again. 
And give that faithful bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from her smile ? 

Yes ! she will wake again, 
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, 

And silent those sweet lips, 

Once breathing eloquence, 
That might have soothed a tiger's rage, 
Or thaw'd the cold heart of a conqueror. 



Her dewy eyes are closed, 
And on their lids, whose texture fine 
Scarce hides the dark-blue orbs beneath. 

The baby Sleep is pillow'd : 

Her golden tresses shade 

The bosom's stainless pride. 
Curling like tendrils of the parasite 

Around a marble column. 

Hark ! whence that rushing sound ? 

'Tis like the wondrous strain 
That round a lonely ruin swells. 
Which, wandering on the echoing shore. 

The enthusiast hears at evening : 
'Tis softer than the west wind's sigh ; 
'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes 
Of that strange lyre whose strings 
The genii of the breezes sweep : 

Those lines of rainbow light 
Are like the moonbeams when they fall 
Through some cathedral window, but the teints 

Are such as may not find 

Comparison on earth. 

Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! 

Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; 

Their filmy pennons at her word they furl. 

And stop obedient to the reins of light : 
These the Queen of spells drew in, 
She spread a charm around the spot, 

And leaning graceful from the ethereal car. 
Long did she gaze, and silently, 
Upon the slumbering maid. 

Oh ! not the vision'd poet in his dreams, 
When silvery clouds float through the wilder'd brain, 
When every sight of lovely, wild and grand, 
Astonishes, enraptures, elevates, 
When fancy at a glance combines 
352 



QUEEN MAB. 



105 



The wondrous and the beautiful, — 
So bright, so fair, so wild a shape 
Hath ever yet beheld, 
As that which rein'd the coursers of the air, 
And pour'd the magic of her gaze 
Upon the maiden's sleep. 

The broad and yellow moon 
Shone dimly through her form — 

That form of faultless symmetry ; 

The pearly and pellucid car 

Moved not the moonlight's line : 
'T was not an earthly pageant ; 

Those who had look'd upon the sight, 
Passing all human glory, 
Saw not the yellow moon, 
Saw not the mortal scene, 
Heard not the night-wind's rush. 
Heard not an earthly sound. 
Saw but the fairy pageant. 
Heard but the heavenly strains 
That fiU'd the lonely dwelling. 

The Fairy's frame was slight : yon fibrous cloud 
That catches but the palest tinge of even, 
And which the straining eye can hardly seize 
When melting into eastern twilight's shadow, 
Were scarce so thin, so slight ; but the fair star 
That gems the glittering coronet of morn. 
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, 
As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form. 
Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, 

Yet with an undulating motion, 

Sway'd to her outline gracefully. 

From her celestial car 

The Fairy Queen descended. 

And thrice she waved her wand 
Circled with wreaths of amaranth : 

Her thin and misty form 

Moved with the moving air. 

And the clear silver tones. 

As thus she spoke, were such 
As are unheard by all but gifted ear. 



Stars ! your balmiest influence shed ! 
Elements ! your wrath suspend ! 
Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds 
That circle thy domain ! 
Let not a breath be seen to stir 
Around yon grass-grown ruin's height, 
Let even the restless gossamer 
Sleep on the moveless air ! 
Soul of lanthe ! thou. 
Judged alone worthy of the envied boon 
That waits the good and the sincere ; that waits 
Those who have struggled, and with resolute will 
Vanquish'd earth's pride and meanness, burst the 

chains. 
The icy chains of custom, and have shone 
The day-stars of their age : — Soul of lanthe ! 
Awake! arise! 

Sudden arose 
lunthe's Soul ; it stood 
All beautiful in naked purity, 
2U 



The perfect semblance of its bodily frame. 
Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, 
Each stain of earthliness 
Had pass'd away, it reassumed 
Its native dignity, and stood 
Immortal amid ruin. 

Upon the couch the body lay 
Wrapt in the depth of slumber : 
Its features were fix'd and meaningless, 

Yet animal life was there. 
And every organ yet perform'd 
Its natural functions : 't was a sight 
Of wonder to behold the body and soul 
The selfsame lineaments, the same 
Marks of identity were there ; 
Yet, oh how different ! One aspires to Heaven, 
Pants for its sempiternal heritage. 
And ever-changing, ever-rising still, 

Wantoas in endless being. 
The other, for a time the unwilling sport 
Of circumstance and passion, struggles on ; 
Fleets through its sad duration rapidly ; 
Then like a useless and worn-out machine, 
Rots, perishes, and passes. 

FAIRY. 

Spirit! who hast dived so deep; 
Spirit ! who hast soar'd so high ; 
Thou the fearless, thou the mild, 
Accept the boon thy worth hath earn'd, 
Ascend the car with me. 



Do I dream ? is this new feeling 
But a vision'd ghost of slumber ? 

If indeed I am a soul, 
A free, a disembodied soul. 
Speak again to me. 



I am the Fairy Mab : to me 'tis given 
The wonders of the human world to keep ; 
The secrets of the immeasurable past, 
In the unfailing consciences of men. 
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find : 
The future, from the causes which arise 
In each event, I gather : not the sting 
Which retributive memory implants 
In the hard bosom of the selfish man ; 
Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb 
Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up 
The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day. 
Are unforeseen, unregister'd by me : 
And it is yet permitted me to rend 
The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit 
Clothed in its changeless purity, may know 
How soonest to accomplish the great end 
For which it hath its being, and may taste 
That peace, which in the end all life will share 
This is the meed of virtue ; happy Soul, 
Ascend the car with me ! 

The chains of earth's immurement 
Fell from lanthe 's spirit ; 
They shrank and brake like bandages of straw 
353 



I 



106 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Beneath a waken'd giant's strength. 

She knew her glorious change, 
And felt in apprehension uncontroU'd 

New raptures opening round : 
Each day-dream of her mortal hfe. 
Each frenzied vision of the slumbers 

That closed each well-spent day, 

Seem'd now to meet reality. 

The Fairy and the Soul proceeded ; 
The silver clouds disparted ; 
And as the car of magic they ascended, 
Again the speechless music swell'd, 
Again the coursers of the air 
Unfurl'd their azure peimons, and the Queen, 
Shaking the beamy reins, 
Bade them pursue their way. 

The magic car moved on. 
The night was fair, and countless stars 
Studded heaven's dark-blue vault, — 

Just o'er the eastern wave 
Peep'd the first faint smile of mom : — 

The magic car moved on — 

From the celestial hoofs 
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew. 

And where the burning wheels 
Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak, 
Was traced a line of lightning. 
Now it flew far above a rock, 

The utmost verge of earth, 
The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow 

Lower'd o'er the silver sea. 

Far, far below the chariot's path 

Calm as a slumbering babe. 

Tremendous Ocean lay. 
The mirror of its stillness show'd 

The pale and waning stars, 

The chariot's fiery track, 

And the gray light of morn 

Tinging those fleecy clouds 

That canopied the dawn. 
Seem'd it, that the chariot's way 
Lay through the midst of an immense concave, 
Radiant with million constellations, tinged 

With shades of infinite color. 

And semicircled with a belt 

Flashing incessant meteors. 

The magic car moved on. 
As they approach'd their goal, 
The coursers seem'd to gather speed ; 
The sea no longer was distinguish'd ; earth 
Appear'd a vast and shadowy sphere : 
The sun's unclouded orb 
RoU'd through the black concave ; (1) 
Its rays of rapid light 
Parted around the chariot's swifter course. 
And fell, like ocean's feathery spray 
Dash'd from the boiling surge 
Before a vessel's prow. 

The magic car moved on. 
Earth's distant orb appear'd 
The smallest Ught that twinkles in the heaven; 



Whilst round the chariot's way 

Innumerable systems roll'd, (2) 

And countless spheres diffused 

An ever-varying glory. 
It was a sight of wonder : some 
Were horned hke the crescent moon; 
Some shed a mild and silver beam 
Like Hesperus o'er the western sea ; 
Some dash'd athwart with trains of flame, 
Like worlds to death and ruin driven ; 
Some shone like suns, and as the chariot pass'd. 
Eclipsed all other Ught. 

Spirit of Nature ! here ! 
In this interminable wilderness 
Of worlds, at whose immensity 
Even soaring fancy staggers. 
Here is thy fitting temple. 
Yet not the slightest leaf 
That quivers to the passing breeze 
Is less instinct with thee : 
Yet not the meanest worm 
That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead 
Less shares thy eternal breath. 

Spirit of Nature ! thou ! 
Imperishable as this scene. 
Here is thy fitting temple. 



II. 

If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
To the wild ocean's echoing shore, 
And thou hast linger'd there. 
Until the sun's broad orb 
Seem'd resting on the burnish'd wave, 

Thou must have mark'd the lines 
Of purple gold, that motionless 

Hung o'er the sinking sphere : 
Thou must have mark'd the billowy clouds 
Edged with intolerable radiancy, 
Towering like rocks of jet 
Crown'd with a diamond wreath. 
And yet there is a moment. 
When the sun's highest point 
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, 
When those far clouds of feathery gold, 
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam 
like islands on a dark-blue sea ; 
Then has thy fancy soar'd above the earth. 
And furl'd its wearied wing 
Within the Fairy's fane. 

Yet not the golden island 
Gleaming in yon flood of light, 

Nor the feathery curtains 
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, 
Nor the burnish'd ocean waves 
Paving that gorgeous dome, 
So fair, so wonderful a sight 
As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. 
Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall ! 
As Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread 
Its floors of flashing light, 
Its vast and azure dome. 
Its fertile golden islands 
Floating on a silver sea ; 

354 



QUEEN MAB. 



107 



Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted 
Through clouds of circumambient darkness, 
And pearly battlements around 
Look'd o'er the immense of Heaven. 



The magic car no longer moved. 
The Fairy and the Spirit 
Enter'd the Hall of Spells : 
Those golden clouds 
That roll'd in glittering billows 
Beneath the azure canopy 
With the ethereal footsteps, trembled not : 

The light and crimson mists, 
Floating to strains of thrilling melody 
Through that unearthly dwelling, 
Yielded to every movement of the will. 
Upon their pensive spell the spirit lean'd, 
And, for the varied bliss that press'd around, 
Used not the glorious privilege 
Of virtue and of wisdom. 



Spirit ! the Fairy said, 
And pointed to the gorgeous dome. 

This is a wondrous sight 
And mocks all human grandeur ; 
But, were it virtue's only meed, to dwell 
In a celestial palace, all resign'd 
To pleasurable impulses, immured 
Within the prison of itself, the will 
Of changeless nature would be unfulfiU'd. 
Learn to make others happy. Spirit, come ! 
This is thine high reward : — the past shall rise ; 
Thou shalt behold the present ; I will teach 

The secrets of the future. 



The Fairy and the Spirit 
Approach'd the overhanging battlement. — 
Below lay stretch'd the universe ! 
There, far as the remotest line 
That bounds imagination's flight. 

Countless and unending orbs 
In mazy motion intermingled. 
Yet still fulfiU'd immutably 
Eternal nature's law. 
Above, below, around 
The circling systems form'd 
A wilderness of harmony ; 
Each with undeviating aim. 
In eloquent silence, through the depths of space 
Pursued its wondrous way. 

There was a little light 
That twinkled in the misty distance : 

None but a spirit's eye 

Might ken that rolling orb ; 

None but a spirit's eye. 

And in no other place 
But that celestial dwelUng, might behold 
Each action of this earth's inhabitants. 

But matter, space and time. 
In those aerial mansions cease to act ; 
And all-prevailing wisdom, when it reaps 
The harvest of its excellence, o'erbounds 
Thoee obstacles, of which an earthly soul 
Fears to attempt the conquest. 



The Fairy pointed to the earth. 
The Spirit's intellectual eye 
Its kindred beings recognized. 
The thronging thousands, to a passing view, 
Seem'd like an ant-hill's citizens. 
How wonderful ! that even 
The passions, prejudices, interests, 
That sway the meanest being, the weak touch 
That moves the finest nerve. 
And in one human brain 
Causes the faintest thought, becomes a link 
In the great chain of nature. 

Behold, the Fairy cried. 
Palmyra's ruin'd palaces ! — 

Behold ! where grandeur frown'd ; 

Behold ! where pleasure smiled ; 
What now remains ? — the memory 

Of senselessness and shame — 

What is immortal there ? 

Nothing — it stands to tell 

A melancholy tale, to give 

An awful warning : soon 
Oblivion will steal silently 

The remnant of its fame. 

Monarchs and conquerors there 
Proud o'er prostrate millions trod — 
The earthquakes of the human race ; 
Like them, forgotten when the ruin 

That marks their shock is past. 

Beside the eternal Nile 

The pyramids have risen. 
Nile shall pursue his changeless way : 

Those pyramids shall fall ; 
Yea ! not a stone shall stand to tell 

The spot whereon they stood ; 
Their very site shall be forgotten, 

As is their builder's name ! 



Behold yon sterile spot ; 
Where now the wandering Arab's tent 

Flaps in the desert blast. 
There once old Salem's haughty fane 
Rear'd high to heaven its thousand golden domes, 
And in the blushing face of day 
Exposed its shameful glory. 



Oh ! many a widow, many an orphan cursed 
The building of that fane ; and many a father, 
Worn out with toil and slavery, implored 
The poor man's God to sweep it from the earth, 
And spare his children the detested task 
Of piling stone on stone, and poisoning 

The choicest days of life, 

To soothe a dotard's vanity. 
There an inhuman and uncultured race 
Howl'd hideous praises to their Demon-God , 
They rush'd to war, tore from the mother's womb 
The unborn child, — old age and infancy 
Promiscuous perish'd ; their victorious arms 
Left not a soul to breathe. Oh ! they were fiends 
But what was he who taught them that the God 
Of nature and benevolence had given 
A special sanction to the trade of blood ? 
His name and theirs are fading, and the tales 
355 



108 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of this barbarian nation, which imposture 
Recites till terror credits, are pursuing 
Itself into forgetfulness. 



Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta stood, 
There is a moral desert now : 
The mean and miserable huts, 
The yet more wretched palaces, 
Contrasted with those ancient fanes, 
Now crumbling to oblivion ; 
The long and lonely colonnades, 
Through which the ghost of Freedom stalks, 
( Seem like a well-known tune, 
Which in some dear scene we have loved to hear, 
Remember'd now in sadness.^ 
But, oh ! how much more changed, 
How gloomier is the contrast 
Of human nature there ! 
Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's slave, 
A coward and a fool, spreads death around — 

Then, shuddering, meets his own. 
Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, 
A cowl'd and hypocritical monk 
Prays, curses and deceives. 



Spirit ! ten thousand years 
Have scarcely past away. 
Since, in the waste where now the savage drinks 
His enemy's blood, and, aping Europe's sons, 
Wakes the unholy song of war. 
Arose a stately city, 
Metropolis of the western continent : 

There, now, the mossy column-stone, 
Indented by time's unrelaxing grasp. 
Which once appear'd to brave 
All, save its country's ruin ; 
There the wide forest scene, 
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness 

Of gardens long run wild. 
Seems, to the unwilling sojourner, whose steps 

Chance in that desert has delay'd. 
Thus to have stood since earth was what it is. 

Yet once it was the busiest haunt, 
Whither, as to a common centre, flock'd 
Strangers, and ships, and merchandise : 
Once peace and freedom blest 
The cultivated plain : 
But wealth, that curse of man. 
Blighted the bud of its prosperity : 
Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty, 
Fled, to return not, until man shall know 
That they alone can give the bliss 

Worthy a soul that claims 
Its kindred vvith eternity. 



There 's not one atom of yon earth 

But once was living man ; 
Nor the minutest drop of rain. 
That hangeth in its thinnest cloud, 
But flow'd in human veins : 
And from the burning plains 
Where Lybian monsters yell, 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless clime, 
To where the golden fields 
Of fertile England spread 



Their harvest to the day, 
Thou canst not find one spot 
Whereon no city stood. 

How strange is human pride ! 
I tell thee that those living things, 
To whom the fragile blade of grass, 
That springeth in the morn 
And perisheth ere noon, 
Is an unbounded world ; 
I tell thee that those viewless beings. 
Whose mansion is the smallest particle 
Of the impassive atmosphere. 
Think, feel and live like man ; 
That their aflfections and antipathies. 
Like his, produce the laws 
Ruling their mortal state ; 
And the minutest throb 
That through their frame diffuses 
The slightest, faintest motion. 
Is fix'd and indispensable 
As the majestic laws 
That rule yon rolling orbs. 

The Fairy paused. The Spirit, 
In ecstasy of admiration, felt 
All knowledge of the past revived ; the events 

Of old and wondrous times. 
Which dim tradition interruptedly 
Teaches the credulous vulgar, were unfolded 
In just perspective to the view ; 
Yet dim from their infinitude. 
The Spirit seem'd to stand 
High on an isolated pinnacle ; 
The flood of ages combating below, 
The depth of the unbounded universe 
Above, and all around 
Nature's unchanging harmony. 

III. 
Fairy ! the Spirit said. 
And on the Queen of spells 
Fix'd her ethereal eyes, 
I thank thee. Thou hast given 
A boon which I will not resign, and taught 
A lesson not to be unlearn'd. I know 
The past, and thence I will essay to glean 
A warning for the future, so that man 
May profit by his errors, and derive 

Experience from his folly : 
For, when the power of imparting joy 
Is equal to the will, the human soul 
Requires no other heaven. ] 



Turn thee, surpassing Spirit ! 
Much yet remains unscann'd. 
Thou knowest how great is man. 
Thou knowest his imbecility : 
Yet learn thou what he is ; 
Yet learn the lofty destiny 
Which restless Time prepares 
For every living soul. 

Behold a gorgeous palace, that, amid 
Yon populous city, rears its thousand towers 
356 



QUEEN MAB. 



109 



And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops 

Of sentinels, in stern and silent ranks, 

Encompass it around : the dweller there 

Cannot be free and happy ; hearest thou not 

The curses of the fatherless, the groans 

Of those who have no friend ? He passes on : 

The King, the wearer of a gilded chain 

That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool 

Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave 

Even to the basest appetites — that man 

Heeds not the shriek of penury ; he smiles 

At the deep curses which the destitute 

Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy 

Pervades his bloodless heart when thousands groan 

But for those morsels which his wantonness 

Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save 

All that they love from famine : when he hears 

The tale of horror, to some ready-made face 

Of hypocritical assent he turns, 

Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite of him, 

Flushes his bloated cheek. 

Now to the meal 
Of silence, grandeur, and excess, he drags 
His pall'd, unwilling appetite. If gold, 
Gleaming around, and numerous viands cull'd 
From every clime, could force the lothing sense 
To overcome satiety, — if wealth 
The spring it draws from poisons not, — or vice, 
Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not 
Its food to deadliest venom ; then that king 
Is happy ; and the peasant who fulfills 
His unforced task, when he returns at even, 
And by the blazing fagot meets again 
Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped, 
Tastes not a sweeter meal. 

Behold him now 
Stretch'd on the gorgeous couch ; his fever'd brain 
Reels dizzily awhile : but ah ! too soon 
The slumber of intemperance subsides, 
And conscience, that undying serpent, calls 
Her venomous brood to their nocturnal task. 
Listen! he speaks! oh! mark that frenzied eye — 
Oh ! mark that deadly visage. 



No 
Oh ! must this last for ever ! Awful death, 
I wish, yet fear to clasp thee ! — Not one moment 
Of dreamless sleep ! O dear and blessed peace ! 
1 Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity 
In penury and dungeons ? wherefore lurkest 
With danger, death, and solitude ; yet shunn'st 
The palace I have built thee! Sacred peace! 
Oh visit me but once, but pitying shed 
One drop of balm upon my wither'd soul. 

Vain man ! that palace is the virtuous heart, 
And peace defiileth not her snowy robes 
In such a shed as thine. Hark ! yet he mutters ; 
His slumbers are but varied agonies. 
They prey like scorpions on the springs of life. 
(There needeth not the hell that bigots frame 
To punish those who err : earth in itself 
Contains at once the evil and the cur6 ; 
And all-sufficing Nature can chastise 



Those who transgress her law, — she only knows 
How justly to proportion to the fault 
The punishment it merits.^ 

Is it strange 

That this poor wretch should pride him in his woe ? 
Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug 
The scorpion that consumes him ? Is it strange 
That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns, 
Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured 
Within a splendid prison, whose stern bounds 
Shut him from all that 's good or dear on earth, 
His soul asserts not its humanity ? 
That man's mild nature rises not in war 
Against a king's employ? No — 'tis not strange. 
He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts and lives 
Just as his father did ; the unconquer'd powers 
Of precedent and custom interpose 
Between a Mng and virtue. Stranger yet, 
To those who know not nature, nor deduce 
The future from the present, it may seem. 
That not one slave, who suffers from the crimes 
Of this unnatural being ; not one wretch, 
Whose children famish, and whose nuptial bed 
Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm 
To dash him from his throne! 



Those gilded flies 
That, basldng in the sunshine of a court, 
Fatten on its corruption! — what are they? 
— The drones ,of the community ; they feed 
On the mechanic's labor : the starved hind 
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield 
Its unshared harvests ; and yon squalid form. 
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes 
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine. 
Drags out in labor a protracted death. 
To glut their grandeur ; many faint with toil, 
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth. 



Whence, thinkest thou, kings and parasites arose ? 

Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap 

Toil and luivanq uishable penury 

On those who build their palaces, and bring 

Their daily bread ? — From vice, black lothesome vice. 

From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong ; 

From all that genders misery, and makes 

Of earth this thorny wilderness ; from lust. 

Revenge, and murder. — And when reason's voice, 

Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked 

The nations ; and mankind perceive that vice 

Is discord, war, and misery ; that virtue 

Is peace, and happiness, and harmony ; 

When man's maturer nature shall disdain 

The playthings of its childhood ;— kingly glare 

Will lose its power to dazzle,- its authority 

Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne 

Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall. 

Fast falling to decay ; whilst falsehood's trade 

Shall be as hateful and unprofitable 

As that of truth is now. 



Where is the fame 
Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth 
Seek to eternize ? Oh ! the faintest sound 
From time's light footfall, the minutest wave 
357 



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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing 

The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day 

Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze 

That flashes desolation, strong the arm 

That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes! 

That mandate is a thunder-peal that died 

In ages past ; that gaze, a transient flash 

On which the midnight closed, and on that arm 

The worm has made his meal. 



(The virtuous man, 
Who, great in his humility, as kings 
Are little in their grandeur ; he who leads 
Invincibly a life of resolute good, 
And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths 
More free and fearless than the trembling judge, 
Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove 
To bind the impassive spirit; — when he falls, 
His mild eye beams benevolent no more : 
Wither'd the hand outstretch 'd but to relieve ; 
Sunk reason's simple eloquence, that roll'd 
But to appal the guilty. Yes ! the grave 
Hath quench'd that eye, and death's relentless frost 
Wither'd that arm : but the unfading fame 
Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb ; 
The deathless memory of that man, whom kings 
Call to their mind and tremble ; the remembrance 
With which the happy spirit contemplates 
Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, 
'Shall never pass away. 



Nature rejects the monarch, not the man ; 
The subject, not the citizen : for kings 
And subjects, mutual foes, for ever play 
A losing game into each other's hands. 
Whose stakes are vice and misery. jThe man 
Of virtuous soul commands not nor obeys. 
Power, like a desolating pestilence. 
Pollutes whate'er it touches ; and obedience, 
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth. 
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame 
A mechanized automaton. \ 



When Nero, 
High over flaming Rome, with savage joy 
Lower'd like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear 
The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld 
The frightful desolation spread, and felt 
A new-created sense within his soul 
Thrill to the sight, and vibrate to the sound ; 
Thinkest thou his grandeur had not overcome 
The force of human kindness ? and, when Rome, 
With one stern blow, hurl'd not the tyrant down, 
Crush'd not the arm red with her dearest blood, 
Had not submissive abjectness destrby'd 
Nature's suggestions ? 

Look on yonder earth : 
The golden harvests spring ; the unfailing sun 
Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees, 
Arise in due succession ; all things speak 
Peace, harmony, and love. The universe, 
In nature's silent eloquence, declares 
That all fulfil the works of love and joy, — 
All but the outcast man. He fabricates 
The sword which stabs his peace ; he cherisheth 



The snakes that gnaw his heart ; he raiseth up 
The tyrant, whose delight is in his woe. 
Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun. 
Lights it the great alone ? Yon silver beams. 
Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch, 
Than on the dome of kings ? Is mother earth 
A stepdame to her numerous sons, who earn 
Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil , 
A mother only to those puling babes 
Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men 
The playthings of their babyhood, and mar, 
In self-important childishness, that peace 
Which men alone appreciate ? 



Spirit of Nature ! no, 
The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs 
Alike in every human heart. 
Thou, aye, erectest there 
Thy throne of power unappealable : 
Thou art the judge beneath whose nod 
Man's brief and frail authority 
Is powerless as the wind 
That passeth idly by. 
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth 
The show of human justice, 
As God surpasses man. 



Spirit of Nature! thou 
life of interminable multitudes ; 

Soul of those mighty spheres 
Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep 
silence lie ; 
Soul of that smallest thing. 

The dwelling of whose life 
Is one faint April sun-gleam; — 
Man, like these passive things. 
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth : 
Like theirs, his age of endless peace, 
Which time is fast maturing. 
Will swiftly, surely come ; 
And the unbounded frame, which thou pervadest 
Will be without a flaw 
Marring its perfect symmetry. 



IV. 

How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh, 

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear. 

Were discord to the speaking quietude 

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, 

Studded with stars unutterably bright, 

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 

Seems like a canopy which love had spread 

To curtain her sleeping world, Yon gentle hills. 

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 

So stainless, that their white and glittering spires 

Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep. 

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 

So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it 

A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene 

Where musing solitude might love to lift 

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 

Where silence undisturb'd might watch ejone. 

So cold, so bright, so still. 

358 



QUEEN MAB. 



Ill 



The orb of day, 
In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field 
Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath 
Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds of eve 
Reflect unmoved the hngering beam of day ; 
And Vesper's image on the western main 
Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : 
Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, 
Roll o'er the blacken'd waters ; the deep roar 
Of distant thunder mutters awfully ,- 
Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom 
That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, 
With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ; 
The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a grave 
Beneath its jagged gulf 

Ah ! whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark-red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quench'd 
In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round! 
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deaf 'ning peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains ring, 
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar 
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage : — loud, and more loud 
The discord grows ; till pale death shuts the scene, 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquer'd draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, 
In proud and vigorous health ; of all the hearts 
That beat with anxious life at sunset there ; 
How few survive, how few are beating now! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; 
Save when the frantic wail of widow'd love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray morn 
Dawns on the mournful scene ! the sulphurous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away. 
And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood 
Even to the forest's depth, and scatter'd arms. 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path 
Of the outrsallying victors : far behind, 

j Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 

i Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 

Each tree which guards its darkness from the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 



I see thee shrink, 
Surpassing Spirit ! — wert thou human else ? 
I see a shade of doubt and horror fleet 
Across thy stainless features : yet fear not ; 
This is no unconnected misery. 
Nor stands uncaused, and irretrievable. 
Man's evil nature, that apology 
Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, 

set up 
For their unnumber'd crimes, sheds not the blood 



Which desolates the discord-wasted land. 
From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose^ 
Whose safety is man's deep unbetter'd woe. 
Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the ax 
Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall ; 
And where its venom'd exhalations spread 
Ruin, and death, and woe, where millions lay 
Quenching the serpent's famine, and their bones 
Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast,, 
A garden shall arise, in loveliness 
Surpassing fabled Eden. 



Hath Nature's soul. 
That form'd this world so beautiful, that spread 
Earth's lap with plenty, and life's smallest chord 
Strung to unchanging unison, that gave 
The happy birds their dwelling in the grove, 
That yielded to the wanderers of the deep 
The lovely silence of the unfathom'd main. 
And fill'd the meanest worm that crawls in dust 
With spirit, thought, and love ; on Man alone. 
Partial in causeless malice, wantonly 
Heap'd ruin, vice, and slavery ; his soul 
Blasted with withering curses ; placed afar 
The meteor-happiness, that shuns his grasp. 
But serving on the frightful gulf to glare, 
Rent vdde beneath his footsteps ? 



Nature ! — no ! 
Kings, priests, and statesmen, blast the human flower 
Even in its tender bud ; their influence darts 
Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins 
Of desolate society. The child. 
Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred name. 
Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts 
His baby-sword even in a hero's mood. 
This infant-arm becomes the bloodiest scourge 
Of devastated earth : whilst specious names. 
Learnt in sofl childhood's unsuspecting hour. 
Serve as the sophisms with which manhood dims 
Bright reason's ray, and sanctifies the sword 
Upraised to shed a brother's innocent blood. 
Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim that man 
Inherits vice and misery, when force 
And falsehood hang even o'er the cradled babe. 
Stifling with rudest grasp all natural good. 



Ah ! to the stranger-soul, when first it peeps 
From its new tenement, and looks abroad 
For happiness and sympathy, how stem 
And desolate a track is this wide world ! 
How wither'd all the buds of natural good ! 
No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms 
Of pitiless powQf ! On its wretched frame, 
Poison'd, perchance, by the disease and woe 
Heap'd on the wretched parent whence it sprung 
By morals, law, and custom, the pure winds 
Of heaven, that renovate the insect tribes, 
May breathe not. The untainting light of day 
May visit not its longings. It is bound 
Ere it ha« life : yea, all the chains are forged 
Long ere its being : all liberty and love 
And peace is torn from its defencelessness ; 
Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle doom d 
To abjectness and bondage ! 

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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Throughout this varied and eternal world 

Soul is the only element, the block 

That for uncounted ages has remain'd. 

The moveless pillar of a mountain's weight 

Is active, living spirit. Every grain 

Is sentient both in unity and part. 

And the minutest atom comprehends 

A world of loves and hatreds ; these beget 

Evil and good : hence truth and falsehood spring ; 

Hence will and thought and action, all the germs 

Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate, 

That variegate the eternal universe. 

Soul is not more polluted than the beams 

Of heaven's pure orb, ere round their rapid lines 

The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise. 



f^Man is of soul and body, form'd for deeds 
Of high resolve, on fancy's boldest wing 
To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn 
The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste 
The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield. 
Or he is form'd for abjectness and woe. 
To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, 
To shrink at every sound, to quench the flame 
Of natural love in sensualism, to know 
That hour as blest when on his worthless days 
The frozen hand of death shall set its seal, 
Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. 
The one is man that shall hereafter be ; 
The other, man as vice has made him now. 



War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,! 

The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade, ,/ 

lAnd, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones 

Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore, 

The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. 

Guards, garb'd in blood-red livery, surround 

Their palaces, participate the crimes 

That force defends, and from a nation's rage 

Secures the crown, which all the curses reach 

That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. 

These are the hired bravoes who defend 

The tyrant's throne (3) — the bullies of his fear : 

These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, 

The refuse of society, the dregs 

Of all that is most vile : their cold hearts blend 

Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride. 

All that is mean and villanous, with rage 

Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt, 

Alone might kindle ; they are deck'd in wealth, 

Honor and power, then are sent abroad 

To do their work. The pestilence that stalks 

In gloomy triumph through some eastern land 

Is less destroying. They cajole with gold, 

And promises of fame, the thoughtless youth 

Already crush'd with servitude: he knows 

His wretchedness too late, and cherishes 

Repentance for his ruin, when his doom 

Is seal'd in gold and blood ! 

Those too, the tyrant serve, who, skill'd to snare 

The feet of justice in the toils of law, 

Stand, ready to oppress the weaker still ; 

And, right or wrong, will vindicate for gold, 

Sneering at public virtue, which beneath 

Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled, where 

Honor sits smiling at the sale of truth. 



Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites, 
Without a hope, a passion, or a love. 
Who, through a life of luxury and lies. 
Have crept by flattery to the seats of power, 
Support the system whence their honors flow — 
They have three words : — well tyrants know their 

use. 
Well pay them for the loan, with usury 
Torn from a bleeding world! — God, Hell, and Heaven. 
A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty fiend, 
Whose mercy is a nickname for the rage 
Of tameless tigers hungering for blood. 
Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire. 
Where poisonous and undying worms prolong 
Eternal misery to those hapless slaves 
Whose life has been a penance for its crimes. 
And Heaven, a meed for those who dare belie 
Their human nature, quake, believe, and cringe 
Before the mockeries of earthly power. 

These tools the tyrant tempers to his work. 
Wields in his wrath, and as he wills destroys, 
Omnipotent in wickedness : the while 
Youth springs, age moulders, manhood tamely does 
His bidding, bribed by shortlived joys to lend 
Force to the weakness of his trembling arm. 

They rise, they fall ; one generation comes, 
Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. 
It fades, another blossoms : yet behold ! 
Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its bloom, 
Withering and cankering deep its passive prime. 
He has invented lying words and modes. 
Empty and vain as his own coreless heart ; 
Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound, 
To lure the heedless victim to the toils 
Spread round the valley of its paradise. 

Look to thyself, priest, conqueror, or prince ! 
Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy lusts 
Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor, 
With whom thy master was : — or thou delight'st 
In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain. 
All misery weighing nothing in the scale 
Against thy shortlived fame : or thou dost load 
With cowardice and crime the groaning land, 
A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self! 
Ay, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er 
Crawl'd on the lothing earth ? Are not thy days 
Days of unsatisfying listlessness ? 
Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is o'er. 
When will the morning come ? Is not thy youth 
A vain and feverish dream of sensualism ? 
Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease ? 
Are not thy views of unregretted death 
Drear, comfortless, and horrible ? Thy mind, 
Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame. 
Incapable of judgment, hope, or love ? 
And dost thou wish the errors to survive 
That bar thee from all sympathies of good. 
After the miserable interest 

Thou hold'st in their protraction ? When the grave 
Has swallow'd up thy memory and thyself. 
Dost thou desire the bane that poisons earth 
To twine its roots around thy coffin'd clay, 
Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy tomb. 
That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die ? 
360 



aUEEN MAB. 



113 



V. 

Thus do the generations of the earth 
Go to the grave, and issue from the womb, (4) 
Surviving still the imperishable change 
That renovates the world ; even as the leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year 
Has scatter'd on the forest soil, (5) and heap'd 
For many seasons there, though long they choke, 
. Loading with lothesome rottenness the land, 
All germs of promise. Yet when the tall trees 
From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes, 
Lie level with the earth to moulder there. 
They fertilize the land they long deform'd, 
Till from the breathing lawn a forest springs 
Of youth, integrity, and loveliness, 
Like that which gave it life, to spring and die. 
Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights 
The fairest feelings of the opening heart, 
Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil 
Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love. 
And judgment cease to wage unnatural war 
With passion's unsubduable array. 

Twin-sister of religion, selfishness ! 
Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all 
The wanton horrors of her bloody play ; 
Yet frozen, unimpassion'd, spiritless. 
Shunning the light, and owning not its name : 
Compell'd, by its deformity, to screen 
With flimsy veil of justice and of right, 
Its unattractive lineaments, that scare 
All, save the brood of ignorance : at once 
The cause and the effect of tyranny ; 
Unblushing, harden'd, sensual, and vile ; 
Dead to all love but of its abjectness. 
With heart impassive by more noble powers 
Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, or fame ; 
Despising its own miserable being. 
Which still it longs, yet fears to disenthrall. 

Hence commerce springs, the venal interchange 

Of all that human art or nature yield ; 

Which wealth should purchase not, but want demand. 

And natural kindness hasten to supply 

From the full fountain of its boundless love, 

For ever stifled, drain'd, and tainted now. 

Commerce ! beneath whose poison-breathing shade 

No soUtary virtue dares to spring. 

But poverty and wealth with equal hand 

Scatter their withering curses, and unfold 

The doors of premature and violent death, 

To pining famine and full-fed disease. 

To all that shares the lot of human life, 

Which poison'd body and soul, scarce drags the chain. 

That lengthens as it goes and clanks behind. 

Commerce has set the mark of selfishness. 
The signet of its all-enslaving power. 
Upon a shining ore, and call'd it gold : 
Before whose image bow the vulgar great. 
The vainly rich, the miserable proud. 
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings, (6) 
And with blind feelings reverence the power 
That grinds them to the dust of misery. 
But in the temple of their hireling hearts 
2 V 



Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn 
All earthly things but virtue. 

Since tyrants, by the sale of human life. 

Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and fame 

To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride. 

Success has sanction'd to a credulous world 

The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war. 

His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes 

The despot numbers ; from his cabinet 

These puppets of his schemes he moves at will, 

Even as the slaves by force or famine driven, 

Beneath a vulgar master, to perform 

A task of cold and brutal drudgery ; — 

Harden'd to hope, insensible to fear. 

Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine. 

Mere wheels of work and articles of trade, 

That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth! 

The harmony and happiness of man 

Yield to the wealth of nations ; that which lifts 

His nature to the heaven of its pride. 

Is barter'd for the poison of his soul ; 

The weight that drags to earth his towering hopes. 

Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain. 

Withering all passion but of slavish fear. 

Extinguishing all free and generous love 

Of enterprise and daring, even the pulse 

That fancy kindles in the beating heart 

To mingle with sensation, it destroys, — 

Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self. 

The grovelling hope of interest and gold, 

Unqualified, unmingled, unredeem'd 

Even by hypocrisy. 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! (7) The wordy eloquence that lives 
After the ruin of their hearts, can gild 
The bitter poison of a nation's woe. 
Can turn the worship of the servile mob 
To their corrupt and glaring idol fame, 
From virtue, trampled by its iron tread. 
Although its dazzling pedestal be raised 
Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field. 
With desolated dwellings smoking round. 
The man of ease, who, by his warm fireside, 
To deeds of charitable intercourse 
And bare fulfilment of the common laws 
Of decency and prejudice, confines 
The struggling nature of his human heart, 
Is duped by their cold sophistry ; he sheds 
A passing tear perchance upon the wreck 
Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's door 
The frightful waves are driven, — when his son 
Is murder'd by the tyrant, or religion 
Drives his wife raving mad. (8) But the poor man* 
Whose life is misery, and fear, and care ; 
Whom the mom wakens but to fruitless toil ; 
Who ever hears his famish'd offspring's scream, 
Whom their pale mother's uncomplaining gaze 
For ever meets, and the proud rich man's eye 
Flashing command, and the heart-breaking scene 
Of thousands like himself; — he little heeds 
The rhetoric of tyranny ; his hate 
Is quenchless as his wrongs ; he laughs to scorn 
The vain and bitter mockery of words, 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds. 
And unrestrain'd but by the arm of power, 
That knows and dreads his enmity. 

The iron rod of penury still compels 

Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth, 

And poison, with unprofitable toil, 

A life too void of solace to confirm 

The very chains that bind him to his doom. 

Nature, impartial in munificence, 

Has gifted man with all-subduing will : 

Matter, with all its transitory shapes. 

Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, 

That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread. 

How many a rustic Milton has past by, 

Stifling the speechless longings of his heart, 

In unrerratting drudgery and care ! 

How many a vulgar Gato has compell'd 

His energies, no longer tameless then. 

To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail ! 

How many a Newton, to whose passive ken 

Those mighty spheres that gem infinity 

Were only specks of tinsel, fix'd in heaven 

To light the midnights of his native town!) 

. ("Yet every heart contain perfection's germ : j 
The wisest of the sages of the earth, 
That ever from the stores of reason drew 
Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless tone, 
Were but a weak and inexperienced boy. 
Proud, sensual, unimpassion'd, unimbued 
With pure desire and universal love, 
Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain, 
Untainted passion, elevated will. 
Which death (who even would linger long in awe 
Within his noble presence, and beneath 
His changeless eyebeam), might alone subdue. 
Him, every slave now dragging through the filth 
Of some corrupted city his sad life, 
Pining with famine, swoln with luxury. 
Blunting the keermess of his spiritual sense 
With narrow schemings and unworthy cares, 
Or madly rushing through all violent crime, 
To move the deep stagnation of his soul, — 
Might imitate and equal. 

But mean lust 
Has bound its chains so tight around the earth. 
That all within it but the virtuous man 
Is venal : gold or fame will surely reach 
The price prefix'd by selfishness, to all 
But him of resolute and unchanging will ; 
Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile crowd, 
Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, 
Can bribe to yield his elevated soul 
To tyranny or falsehood, though they wield 
With blood-red hand the sceplre of the world. 

All things are sold : the very light of heaven 

Is venal ; earth's unsparing gifts of love. 

The smallest and most despicable things 

That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 

All objects of our life, even life itself. 

And the poor pittance which the laws allow 

Of liberty, the fellowship of man, 

Those duties which his heart of human love 



Should urge him to perform instinctively. 

Are bought and sold as in a public mart 

Of undisguising selfishness, that sets 

On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign. 

Even love is sold ; (9) the solace of all woe 

Is tum'd to deadUest agony, old age 

Shivers in selfish beauty's lo thing arms, 

And youth's corrupted impulses prepare 

A life of horror from the blighting bane 

Of commerce ; whilst the pestilence that springs 

From unenjoying sensualism, has fill'd 

All human life with hydra-headed woes. ) 

Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs 

Of outraged conscience ; for the slavish priest 

Sets no great value on his hireling faith : 

A little passing pomp, some servile souls, 

Whom cowardice itself might safely chain, 

Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe 

To deck the triumph of their languid zeal, 

Can make him minister to tyranny. 

More daring crime requires a loftier meed : 

Without a shudder, the slave-soldier lends 

His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart 

When the dread eloquence of dying men, 

Low mingling on the lonely field of fame. 

Assails that nature, whose applause he selL? 

For the gross blessings of a patriot mob. 

For the vile gratitude of heartless kings, 

And for a cold world's good word, — viler still ! 

There is a nobler glory, which survives 

Until our being fades, and, solacing 

All human care, accompanies its change ; 

Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's gloom, 

And, in the precincts of the palace, guides 

Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime ; 

Imbues its lineaments with dauntlessness, 

Even when, from power's avenging hand, he takes 

Its sweetest, last and noblest title — death ; 

— The consciousness of good, which neither gold. 

Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly bliss, 

Can purchase : but a life of resolute good, 

Unalterable will, quenchless desire 

Of universal happiness, the heart 

That beats with it in unison, the brain. 

Whose ever-wakeful wisdom toils to change 

Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal. 

This commerce of sincerest virtue needs 
No meditative signs of selfishness, 
No jealous intercourse of wretched gain. 
No balancings of prudence, cold and long; 
In just and equal measure all is weigh 'd, 
One scale contains the sum of human weal. 
And one, the good man's heart. 

How vainly seek 
The selfish for that happiness denied 
To aught but virtue ! Blind and harden'd they. 
Who hope for peace amid the storms of care. 
Who covet power they know not how to use, 
And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give, — 
Madly they frustrate still their own designs ; 
And, where they hope that quiet to enjoy 
Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul, 
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115 



Pining regrets, and vain repentances, 
Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade 
Their valueless and miserable lives. 



But hoary-headed selfishness has felt 
Its death-blow, and is tottering to the grave: 
A brighter morn awaits the human day, 
When every transfer of earth's natural gifts 
Shall be a commerce of good words and works ; 
When poverty and wealth, the thirst of fame, 
The fear of infamy, disease and woe, 
War with its million horrors, and fierce hell 
Shall live but in the memory of time, 
Who, like a penitent libertine, shall start, 
Look back, and shudder at his younger years. 



VI. 

All touch, all eye, all ear, 
The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech. 

O'er the thin texture of its frame, 
The varying periods painted changing glows, 

As on a summer even. 
When soul-infolding music floats around, 
The stainless mirror of the lake 
Re-images the eastern gloom. 
Mingling convulsively its purple hues 
With sunset's burnish'd gold. 



Then thus the Spirit spoke : 
It is a veild and miserable world ! 

Thorny, and full of care, 
Which every fiend can make his prey at will. 
O Fairy ! in the lapse of years, 
Is there no hope in store? 
Will yon vast suns roll on 
Interminably, still illuming 
The night of so many wretched souls. 
And see no hope for them ? 
Will not the universal Spirit e'er 
Revivify this wither'd limb of Heaven ? 



The Fairy calmly smiled 
In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope 

Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 
Oh ! rest thee tranquil ; chase those fearful doubts. 
Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul, 
That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. 
Yes ! crime and misery are in yonder earth. 

Falsehood, mistake, and lust ; 

But the eternal world 
Contains at once the evil and the cure. 
Some eminent in virtue shall start up. 

Even in perversest time : 
The truths of their pure lips, that never die. 
Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath 

Of ever-living flame. 
Until the monster sting itself to death. 

How sweet a scene will earth become ! 
Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, 
Symphonious with the planetary spheres ; 
When man, with changeless nature coalescing, 
Will undertake regeneration's work, 
When its ungenial poles no longer point 



To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there. (10) 

Spirit ! on yonder earth, 
Falsehood now triumphs ; deadly power 
Has fix'd its seal upon the lip of truth ! 

Madness and misery are there .' 
The happiest is most wretched I Yet confide, 
Until pure health-drops, from the cup of joy, 
Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. 
Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn, 
And read the blood-stain'd charter of all woe, 
Which nature soon, with recreating hand. 
Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. 
How bold the flight of passion's wandering wing, 
How swift the step of reason's firmer tread. 
How calm and sweet the victories of life. 
How terrorless the triumph of the grave ! 
How powerless were the mightiest monarch's arm. 
Vain his loud threat, and impotent his frown ! 
How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar ! 
The weight of his exterminating curse 
How light ! and his aflfected charity. 
To suit the pressure of the changing times. 
What palpable deceit ! — but for thy aid. 
Religion ! but for thee, prolific fiend. 
Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, 
And heaven with slaves ! 

Thou taintest all thou look'st upon ! — the stars. 
Which on thy cradle beam'd so brightly sweet. 
Were gods to the distemper'd playfulness 
Of thy untutor'd infancy : the trees. 
The grass, the clouds, the mountains, and the sea, 
All living things that walk, swim, creep, or fly. 
Were gods : the sun had homage, and the moon 
Her worshipper. Then thou becamest a boy, 
More daring in thy frenzies : every shape, 
Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild. 
Which, from sensation's relics, fancy culls ; 
The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost. 
The genii of the elements, the powers 
That give a shape to nature's varied works. 
Had life and place in the corrupt belief 
Of thy blind heart : yet still thy youthful hands 
Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave 
Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied brain ; 
Thine eager gaze scann'd the stupendous scene. 
Whose wonders mock'd the knowledge of thy pride: 
Their everlasting and unchanging laws 
Reproach'd thine ignorance. Awhile thou stoodst 
Baflled and gloomy; then thou didst sum up 
The elements of all that thou didst know ; 
The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign. 
The budding of the heaven-breathing trees. 
The eternal orbs that beautify the night. 
The sunrise, and the setting of the moon. 
Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease. 
And all their causes, to an abstract point 
Converging, thou didst bend, and call'd it God ! 
The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, 
The merciful, and the avenging God ! 
Who, prototype of human misrule, sits 
High in heaven's realm, upon a golden throne. 
Even like an earthly king ; and whose dread vFork, 
Hell, gapes for ever for the unhappy slaves 
Of fate, whom he created in his sport. 
To triumph in their torments when they fell ! 
Earth heard the name; earth trembled, as the smoke 
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Of his revenge ascended up to heaven, 

Blotting the constellations ; and the cries 

Of millions, butcher'd in sweet confidence 

And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds 

Of safety were confirm'd by wordy oaths 

Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land ; 

Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stubborn spear, 

And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's shriek 

Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel 

Felt cold in her torn entrails ! 

Religion ! thou wert then in manhood's prime : 

But age crept on : one God would not suffice 

For senile puerility ; thou framedst 

A tale to suit thy dotage, and to glut 

Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend 

Thy wickedness had pictured, might aflqrd 

A plea for sating the unnatural thirst 

For murder, rapine, violence, and crime, 

That still consumed thy being, even when 

Thou heardst the step of late ; — that flames might 

light 
Thy funeral scene, and the shrill horrent shrieks 
Of parents dying on the pile that burn'd. 
To light their children to thy paths, the roar 
Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries 
Of thine apostles, loud commingling there, 

Might sate thine hungry ear 

Even on the bed of death ! 



But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs ; 
Thou art descending to the darksome grave, 
Unhonor'd and unpitied, but by those 
Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds, 
Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun 
Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night 
That long has lower'd above the ruin'd world. 



Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light, 

Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused 

A spirit of activity and life. 

That knows no term, cessation, or decay ; 

That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, 

Extinguish'd in the dampness of the grave. 

Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe 

In the dim newness of its being feels 

The impulses of sublunary things. 

And all is wonder to unpractised sense : 

But, active, stedfast, and eternal, still. 

Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, 

Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, 

Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease ; 

And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly 

Rolls round the eternal universe, and shakes 

Its undecaying battlement, presides. 

Apportioning with irresistible law 

The place each spring of its machine shall fill ; 

So that, when waves on waves tumultuous heap 

Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven 

Heaven's lightnings scorch th' uprooted ocean-fords, 

Whilst, to the eye of shipwreck'd mariner. 

Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock. 

All seems unlink'd contingency and chance : 

No atom of this turbulence fulfils 

A vague and unnecessitated task. 

Or acts but as it must and ought to act. (11) 

Even the minutest molecule of light. 



That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow 

Fulfils its destined, though invisible work, 

The universal Spirit guides ; nor less 

When merciless ambition, or mad z?al. 

Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field. 

That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves. 

And call the sad work glory, does it rule 

All passions : not a thought, a will, an act. 

No working of the tyrant's moody mind, 

Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast 

Their servitude, to hide the shame they feel. 

Nor the events enchaining every will. 

That from the depths of unrecorded time 

Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass 

Unrecognized, or unforeseen by thee, 

Soul of the Universe ! eternal spring 

Of life and death, of happiness and woe. 

Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene 

That floats before our eyes in wavering light, 

Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison. 

Whose chains and massy walls 

We feel, but cannot see.J 



Spirit of Nature ! all-sufficing power, 
iNfecessity ! thou mother of the world ! (12) 
Unlike the God of human error, thou 
Requirest no prayers or praises ; the caprice 
Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee 
Than do the changeful passions of his breast 
To thy unvarying harmony : the slave. 
Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world. 
And the good man, who lifts, with virtuous pride, 
His being, in the sight of happiness. 
That springs from his own works ; the poison-tree. 
Beneath whose shade all life is wither'd up, 
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome afl^ords 
A temple where the vows of happy love 
Are register'd, are equal in thy sight ; 
No love, no hate thou cherishest ; revenge 
And favoritism, and worst desire of fame. 
Thou knowest not : all that the wide world contains 
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou 
Regard 'st them all with an impartial eye. 
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, 
OBecause thou hast not human sense. 
Because thou art not human mind,) 



Yes ! when the sweeping storm of time 
Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruin'd fanes 
And broken altars of th' almighty fiend. 
Whose name usurps thy honors, and the blood 
Through centuries clotted there, has floated down 
The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live 
Unchangeable ! A shrine is raised to thee. 

Which, nor the tempest breath of time, 

Nor the interminable flood. 

Over earth's slight pageant rolling, 
Availeth to destroy, — 
The sensitive extension of the world. 

That wondrous and eternal fane. 
Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, 
To do the will of strong necessity. 

And life, in multitudinous shapes. 
Still pressmg forward where no term can be, 

Like hungry and unresting flame 
Curls round the eternal columns of its strength. 
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117 



VII. 



I was an infant when my mother went 

To see an atheist burn'd. She took me there : 

The dark-robed priests were met around the pile ; 

The multitude was gazing silently ; 

And as the culprit pass'd with dauntless mien, 

Temper'd disdain in his unaltering eye, 

Mix'd with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth : 

The thirsty fire crept round his manly limbs ; 

His resolute eyes were scorch'd to blindness soon ; 

His death-pang rent my heart ! the insensate mob 

Utter'd a cry of triumph, and I wept. 

Weep not, child ! cried my mother, for that man 

Has said, There is no God. (13.) 



FAIRY. 

There is no God ! 
Nature confirms the faith his death-groan seal'd : 
Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving race, 
His ceaseless generations tell their tale ; 
Let every part depending on the chain 
That links it to the whole, point to the hand 
That grasps its term ! let every seed that falls 
In silent eloquence unfold its store 
Of argument : infinity within, 
Infinity without, belie creation ; 
The interminable spirit it contains 
Is nature's only God ; but human pride 
Is skilful to invent most serious names 
To hide its ignorance. 

The name of God 
Has fenced about all crime with holiness, 
Himself the creatiure of his worshippers, 
Whose names and attributes and passions change, 
Seeva, Buddh, Fob, Jehovah, God, or Lord, 
Even with the human dupes who build his shrines, 
Still serving o'er the war-polluted world 
For desolation's watch- word ; whether hosts 
Stain his death-blushing chariot-wheels, as on 
Triumphantly they roll, whilst Brahmins raise 
A sacred hymn to mingle with the groans 5 
Or countless partners of his power divide 
His tyranny to weakness ; or the smoke 
Of burning towns, the cries of female helplessness, 
Unarm'd old age, and youth, and infancy, 
Horribly massacred, ascend to heaven 
In honor of his name ; or last and worst, 
Earth groans beneath religion's iron age, 
And priests dare babble of a God of peace, 
Even whilst their hands are red with guiltless blood 
Murdering the while, uprooting every germ 
Of truth, exterminating, spoiling all. 
Making the earth a slaughter-house ! 

O Spirit ! through the sense 
By which thy inner nature was apprized 

Of outward shows, vague dreams have roU'd, 
And varied reminiscences have waked 

Tablets that never fade ; 
All things have been imprinted there, 
The stars, the sea, the earth, the sky, 
Even the unshapeliest lineaments 
Of wild and fleeting visions 



Have left a record there 
To testify of earth. 

These are my empire, for to me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep. 
And fancy's thin creations to endow 
With matter, being, and reality; 
Therefore a wondrous phantom, from the dreams 
Of human error's dense and purblind faith, 
I will evoke, to meet thy questioning. 
Ahasuerus, rise ! (14) 

A strange and woe-worn wight 
Arose beside the battlement, 

And stood unmoving there. 
His inessential figure cast no shade 

Upon the golden floor ; 
His port and mien bore mark of many years, 
And chronicles of untold ancientness 
Were legible within his beamless eye : 

Yet his cheek bore the mark of youth ; 
Freshness and vigor knit his manly frame ; 
The wisdom of old age was mingled there 
With youth's primeval dauntlessness ; 
And inexpressible woe, 
Chasten'd by fearless resignation, gave 
An awful grace to his all-speaking brow. 



Is there a God ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Is there a God ! — ay, an almighty God, 

And vengeful as almighty ! Once his voice 

Was heard on earth : earth shudder'd at the sound , 

The fiery-visaged firmament express'd 

Abhorrence, and the grave of nature yavvn'd 

To swallow all the dauntless and the good 

That dared to hurl defiance at his throne. 

Girt as it was with power. None but slaves 

Survived, — cold-blooded slaves, who did the work 

Of tyrannous omnipotence ; whose souls 

No honest indignation ever urged 

To elevated daring, to one deed 

Which gross and sensual self did not pollute. 

These slaves built temples for the omnipotent fiend, 

Gorgeous and vast : the costly altars smoked 

With human blood, and hideous paeans rung 

Through all the long-drawn aisles. A murderer 

heard 
His voice in Egypt, one whose gifts and arts 
Had raised him to his eminence in power 
Accomplice of omnipotence in crime. 
And confidant of the all-knowing one. 
These were Jehovah's words. 

From an eternity of idleness 
I, God, awoke ; in seven days' toil made earth 
From nothing ; rested, and created man : 
I placed him in a paradise, and there 
Planted the tree of evil, so that he 
Might eat and perish, and my soul procure 
Wherewith to sate its malice, and to turn, 
Even like a heartless conqueror of the earth 
All misery to my fame. The race of men 
Chosen to my honor, with impunity 
May sate the lusts I planted in their heart. 
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Here I command thee hence to lead them on, 
Until, with harden'd feet, their conquering troops 
Wade on the promised soil through woman's blood, 
And make my name be dreaded through the land. 
Yet ever-burning flame and ceaseless woe 
Shall be the doom of their eternal souls. 
With every soul on this ungrateful earth, 
Virtuous or vicious, weak or strong,— even all 
Shall perish to fulfil the blind revenge 
(Which you, to men, call justice) of their God. 

The murderer's brow 
Quiver'd with horror. 

God omnipotent, 
Is there no mercy ? must our punishment 
Be endless ? will long ages roll away, 
And see no term ? Oh ! wherefore hast thou made 
In mockery and wrath this evil earth ? 
Mercy becomes the powerful — be but just : 

God ! repent and save. 

One way remains : 

1 will beget a son, and he shall bear 

The sins of all the world ; (15) he shall arise 

In an unnoticed corner of the earth. 

And there shall die upon a cross, and purge 

The universal crime ; so that the few 

On whom my grace descends, those who are mark'd 

As vessels to the honor of their God, 

May credit this strange sacrifice, and save 

Their souls alive : millions shall live and die, 

Who ne'er shall call upon their Savior's name, 

But, unredeem'd, go to the gaping grave. 

Thousands shall deem it an old woman's tale, 

Such as the nurses frighten babes withal : 

These in a gulf of anguish and of flame 

Shall curse their reprobation endlessly. 

Yet tenfold pangs shall force them to avow, 

Even on their beds of torment, where they howl, 

My honor, and the justice of their doom. 

What then avail their virtuous deeds, their thoughts 

Of purity, with radiant genius bright, 

Or lit with human reason's earthly ray ? 

Many are call'd, but few will I elect. 

Do thou my bidding, Moses ! 

Even the murderer's cheek 
Was blanch'd with horror, and his quivering lips 
Scarce faintly utter'd — O almighty one, 
I tremble and obey ! 

Spirit ! centuries have set their seal 

On this heart of many wounds, and loaded brain. 

Since the Incarnate came : humbly he came. 

Veiling his horrible Godhead in the shape 

Of man, scorn'd by the world, his name unheard, 

Save by the rabble of his native town. 

Even as a parish demagogue. He led 

The crowd; he taught them justice, truth, and peace, 

In semblance ; but he lit within their souls 

The quenchless flames of zeal, and blest the sword 

He brought on earth to satiate with the blood 

Of truth and freedom his malignant soul. 

At length his mortal frame was led to death. 

1 stood beside him : on the torturing cross 
No pain assail'd his unterrestrial sense ; 
And yet he groan'd. Indignantly I summ'd 



The massacres and miseries which his name 

Had sanction'd in my country, and I cried, 

Go ! go ! in mockery. 

A smile of godlike malice reillumined 

His fading lineaments. — I go, he cried, 

But thou shalt wander o'er the unquiet earth 

Eternally. The dampness of the grave 

Bathed my imperishable front. I fell. 

And long lay tranced upon the charmed soil. 

When I awoke, hell burn'd vdthin my brain. 

Which stagger'd on its seat ; for all around 

The mouldering relics of my kindred lay. 

Even as the Almighty's ire arrested them. 

And in their various attitudes of death 

My murder'd children's mute and eyeless skulls 

Glared ghastily upon me. 



But my soul, 
From sight and sense of the polluting woe 
Of tyranny, had long learn'd to prefer 
Hell's freedom to the servitude of heaven. 
Therefore I rose, and dauntlessly began 
My lonely and unending pilgrimage. 
Resolved to wage unweariable war 
With my almighty tyrant, and to hurl 
Defiance at his impotence to harm 
Beyond the curse I bore. The very hand 
That barr'd my passage to the peaceful grave 
Has crush'd the earth to misery, and given 
Its empire to the chosen of his slaves. 
These have I seen, even from the earliest dawn 
Of weak, unstable and precarious power ; 
Then preaching peace, as now they practise war, 
So when they turn'd but from the massacre 
Of unoflfending infidels, to quench 
Their thirst for ruin in the very blood 
That flow'd in their own veins, and pitiless zeal 
Froze every human feeling, as the wife 
Sheathed in her husband's heart the sacred steel, 
Even whilst its hopes were dreaming of her love 
And friends to friends, brothers to brothers stood 
Opposed in bloodiest battle-field, and war, 
Scarce satiable by fate's last death-draught waged. 
Drunk from the wine-press of the Almighty's wrath , 
Whilst the red cross, in mockery of peace, 
Pointed to victory ! When the fray was done. 
No remnant of the exterminated faith 
Survived to tell its ruin, but the flesh, 
With putrid smoke poisoning the atmosphere. 
That rotted on the half-extinguish 'd pile. 



Yes ! I have seen God's worshippers unsheathe 

The sword of his revenge, when grace descended, 

Confirming all unnatural impulses. 

To sanctify their desolating deeds: 

And frantic priests waved the ill-omen'd cross 

O'er the unhappy earth ; then shone the sun 

On showers of gore from the upflashing steel 

Of safe assassination, and all crime 

Made stingless by the spirits of the Lord. 

And blood-red rainbows canopied the land. 

Spirit ! no year of my eventful being 

Has pass'd imstain'd by crime and misery, 

Which flows from God's o^vn faith. I've mark'd 

his slaves. 
With tongues whose lies are venomous, beguile 
The insensate mob, and whilst one hand was red 
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aUEEN MAB. 



119 



With murder, feign to stretch the other out 

For brotherhood and peace; and that they now 

Babble of love and mercy, whilst their deeds 

Are mark'd with all the narrowness and crime 

That freedom's young arm dare not yet chastise, 

Reason may claim our gratitude, who now 

Establishing the imperishable throne 

Of truth, and stubborn virtue, maketh vain 

The unprevailing malice of my foe. 

Whose bootless rage heaps torments for the brave, 

Adds impotent eternities to pain. 

Whilst keenest disappointment racks his breast 

To see the smiles of peace around them play, 

To frustrate or to sanctify their doom. 

Thus have I stood, — through a wild waste of years 

Struggling with whirlwinds of mad agony. 

Yet peaceful, and serene, and self-enshrined, 

Mocking my powerless tyrant's horrible curse 

With stubborn and unalterable will, 

Even as a giant oak, which heaven's fierce flame 

Had scathed in the wilderness, to stand 

A monument of fadeless ruin there ; 

Yet peacefully and movelessly it braves 

The midnight conflict of the wintry storm, 

As in the sunlight's calm it spreads 

Its worn and wither'd arms on high 
To meet the quiet of a summer's noon. 



The Fairy waved her wand : 
Ahasuerus fled 
Fast as the shapes of mingled shade and mist, 
That lurk in the glens of a twilight grove. 
Flee from the morning beam : 
The matter of which dreams are made 
Not more enSow'd with actual life 
Than this phantasmal portraiture 
Of wandering human thought. 

VIII. 

The present and the past thou hast beheld : 
It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn 

The secrets of the future. — Time ! 
Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom, 
Render thou up thy half-devoured babes, 
And from the cradles of eternity. 
Where millions lie lull'd to their portion'd sleep 
By the deep murmuring stream of passing things. 
Tear thou that gloomy shroud. — Spirit, behold 
Thy glorious destiny ! 



Joy to the Spirit came. 
Thiough the wide rent in Time's eternal veil, 
Hope was seen beaming through the mists of fear ; 
Earth was no longer hell ; 
Love, freedom, health, had given 

, Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime, 

j And all its pulses beat 

Symphonious to the planetary spheres : 

I Then dulcet music swell'd 

Concordant with the life-strings of the soul ; 
It throbb'd in sweet and languid beatings there, 
Catching new life from transitory death, — 
Like the vague sighings of a v«nd at even. 
That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea 
And dies on the creation of its breath, 



And sinks and rises, fails and swells by fits ; 
Was the pure stream of feeling 
That sprung from these sweet notes. 
And o'er the Spirit's human sympathies 
With mild and gentle motion calmly flow'd. 



Joy to the Spirit came, — 
Such joy as when a lover sees 
The chosen of his soul in happiness. 

And witnesses her peace 
Whose woe to him were bitterer than death, 

Sees her unfaded cheek 
Glow mantling in first luxury of health, 

Thrills with her lovely eyes. 
Which like two stars amid the heaving mam 

Sparkle through liquid bliss. 



Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen : 
I will not call the ghost of ages gone 
To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore ; 

The present now is past. 
And those events that desolate the earth 
Have faded from the memory of Time, 
Who dares not give reality to that 
Whose being I annul. To me is given 
The wonders of the human world to keep. 
Space, matter, time, and mind. Futurity 
Exposes now its treasure ; let the sight 
Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. 
O human Spirit ! spur thee to the goal 
Where virtue fixes universal peace, 
And, 'midst the ebb and flow of human things, 
Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain still, 
A light-house o'er the wild of dreary waves. 
The habitable earth is full of bliss ; 
Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurl'd 
By everlasting snow-storms round the poles. 
Where matter dared not vegetate or live, 
But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude 
Bound its broad zone of stillness, are unloosed ; 
And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles 
Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls 
Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand, 
Whose roar is waken'd into eehoings sweet 
To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves. 
And melodize with man's blest nature there. 



Those deserts of immeasurable sand. 

Whose age-collected fervors scarce allow'd 

A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring. 

Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's love 

Broke on the sultry silentness alone, 

Now teem with countless rills and shady woods. 

Corn-fields and pastures and white cottages ; 

And where the startled wilderness beheld 

A savage conqueror stain'd in kindred blood, 

A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs 

The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs. 

Whilst shouts and bowlings through the desert rang 

Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn, 

Oflfering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles 

To see a babe before his mother's door. 

Sharing his morning's meal 
With the green and golden basihsk 

That comes to lick his feet. 
367 



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Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail 
Has seen above the illimitable plain, 
Morning on night, and night on morning rise, 
Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread 
Its shadowy mountains on the sunbright sea. 
Where the loud roarings of the tempest-waves 
So long have mingled with the gusty wind 
In melancholy loneliness, and swept 
The desert of those ocean solitudes, 
But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, 
The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm, 
Now to the sweet and many mingling sounds 
Of kindliest human impulses respond. 
Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, 
With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, 
And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, 
Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, 
Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to shore, 
To meet the kisses of the flowerets there. 



All things are recreated, and the flame 
Of consentaneous love inspires all life : 
The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck 
To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, 
Rewarding her with their pure perfectness: 
The balmy breathings of the wind inhale 
Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad : 
Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere. 
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream : 
No storms deform the beamin^brow of Heaven, 
Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride 
The foliage of the ever- verdant trees ; 
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, 
And autumn proudly bears her matron grace, 
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring, 
Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit 
Reflects its tint and blushes into love. 



The lion now forgets to thirst for blood : 

There might you see him sporting in the sun 

Beside the dreadless kid ; his claws are sheathed, 

His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made 

His nature as the nature of a lamb. 

Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempting bane 

Poisons no more the pleasure it bestows : 

All bitterness is past ; the cup of joy 

Unmingled mantles to the goblet's brim. 

And courts the thirsty lips it fled before. 



But chief, ambiguous man, he that can know 

More misery, and dream more joy than all ; 

Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast 

To mingle with a loftier instinct there, 

Lending their power to pleasure and to pain, 

Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each ; 

Who stands amid the ever-varying world. 

The burthen or the glory of the earth ; 

He chief perceives the change, his being notes 

The gradual renovation, and defines 

Each movement of its progress on his mind. 



Man, where the gloom of the long polar night 
Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil. 
Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost 
Basks in the moonlight's ineflfectual glow. 
Shrank with the plants, and darken'd with the night ; 



His chill'd and narrow energies, his heart. 
Insensible to courage, truth, or love. 
His stunted stature and imbecile frame, 
Mark'd him for some abortion of the earth. 
Fit compeer of the bears that roam'd around, 
Whose habits and enjoyments were his own • 
His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe. 
Whose meager wants, but scantily fulfiU'd, 
Apprized him ever of the joyless length 
Which his short being's wretchedness had reach'd i 
His death a pang which famine, cold and toil. 
Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark 
Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought : 
All was inflicted here that earth's revenge 
Could wreak on the infringers of her law ; 
One curse alone was spared — the name of God 



Nor where the tropics bound the realms of day 

With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame, 

Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere 

Scatter'd the seeds of pestilence, and fed 

Unnatural vegetation, where the land 

Teem'd with all earthquake, tempest and disease, 

Was man a nobler being ; slavery 

Had crush'd him to his country's blood-stain'd dust j 

Or he was barter'd for the fame of power. 

Which, all internal impulses destroying. 

Makes human will an article of trade ; 

Or he was changed with Christians for their gold. 

And dragg'd to distant isles, where to the sound 

Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does the work 

Of all-polluting luxury and wealth. 

Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads 

The long-protracted fullness of their woe ; 

Or he was led to legal butchery. 

To turn to worms beneath that burning sun. 

Where kings first leagued against the rights of men 

And priests first traded with the name of God. 



Even where the milder zone afforded man 

A seeming shelter, yet contagion there, 

Blighting his being with unnumber'd ills. 

Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor truth till late 

Avail'd to arrest its progress, or create 

That peace which first in bloodless victory waved 

Her snowy standard o'er this favor'd clime : 

There man was long the train-bearer of slaves. 

The mimic of surrounding misery, 

The jackal of ambition's lion-rage. 

The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. 



Here now the human being stands adorning 
This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind « 
Blest from his birth with all bland impulses. 
Which gently in his noble bosom wake 
All kindly passions and all pure desires. 
Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing. 
Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal 
Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise 
In time-destroying infiniteness, gift 
With self-enshrined eternity, (16) that mocks 
The unprevailing hoariness of age. 
And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene 
Swift as an unremember'd vision, stands 
Immortal upon earth : no longer now 
He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, (l"? 
368 



QUEEN MAB. 



121 



And horribly devours his mangled flesh, 

Which, still avenging nature's broken law, 

Kindled all putrid humors in his frame. 

All evil passions, and all vain belief, 

Hatred, despair, and lothing in his mind, 

The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime. 

No longer, now the winged habitants. 

That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, 

Flee from the form of man ; but gather round, 

And prune their sunny feathers on the hands 

Which little children stretch in friendly sport 

Towards these dreamless partners of their play. 

All things are void of terror : man has lost 

His terrible prerogative, and stands 

An equal amidst equals : happiness 

And science dawn, though late, upon the earth ; 

Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame 

Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, . 

Reason and passion cease to combat there ; 

Whilst each unfetter'd o'er the earth extend 

Their all-subduing energies, and wield 

The sceptre of a vast dominion there ; 

Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends 

Its force to the omnipotence of mind. 

Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth 

To decorate its paradise of peace. 



! IX. 

O HAPPY Earth ! reality of Heaven ! 

' To which those restless souls that ceaselessly 
I Throng through the human universe, aspire ; 
I Tliou consummation of all mortal hope ! 

Thou glorious prize of blindly- working will ! 

Whose rays, diffused throughout all space and time, 
' Verge to one point and blend for ever there : 
I Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place ! 
I Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime, 

Languor, disease, and ignorance, dare not come : 
I O happy Earth, reality of Heaven ! 



Genius has seen thee in her passionate dreams, 
And dim forebodings of thy loveliness 
Haunting the human heart, have there entwined 
Those rooted hopes of some sweet place of bliss, 
Where friends and lovers meet to part no more. 
Thou art the end of all desire and will. 
The product of all action ; and the souls 
That by the paths of an aspiring change 
Have reach'd thy haven of perpetual peace, 
There rest from the eternity of toil 
That framed the fabric of thy perfectness. 



Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his fear ; 
That hoary giant, who, in lonely pride. 
So long had ruled the world, that nations fell 
Beneath his silent footstep. Pyramids, 
That for millenniums had withstood the tide 
Of human things, his storm-breath drove in sand 
Across that desert where their stones survived 
The name of him whose pride had heap'd them there. 
Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp. 
Was but the mushroom of a summer day, 
That his light-winged footstep press'd to dust : 
Time was the king of earth : all things gave way 
Before him, but the fix'd and virtuous will, 
2 W 



The sacred sympathies of soul and sense. 
That mock'd his fury and prepared his fall. 

Yet slow and gradual dawn'd the morn of love ; 
Long lay the clouds and darkness o'er the scene, 
Till from its native heaven they roll'd away : 
First, crime triumphant o'er all hope career'd 
Unblushing, undisguising, bold and strong ; 
Whilst falsehood, trick'd in virtue's attributes, 
Long sanctified all deeds of vice and woe. 
Till done by her own venomous sting to death, 
She left the moral world without a law, 
JVo longer fettering passion's fearless wing. 
Nor searing reason with the brand of God. 
Then steadily the happy ferment work'd ; 
Heason was freei and wild though passion went 
Through tangled glens and wood-embosom'd meac 
Gathering a garland of the strangest flowers, 
Yet like the bee returning to her queen. 
She bound the sweetest on her sister's brow. 
Who meek and sober kiss'd the sportive child, 
No longer trembling at the broken rod. 



Mild was the slow necessity of death : 

The tranquil Spirit fail'd beneath its grasp, 

Without a groan, almost without a fear. 

Calm as a voyager to some distant land. 

And full of wonder, full of hope as he. 

The deadly germs of languor and disease 

Died in the human frame, and purity 

Blest with all gifts her earthly worshippers 

How vigorous then the athletic form of age ! 

How clear its open and un wrinkled brow ! 

Where neither avarice, cunning, pride, nor care. 

Had slamp'd the seal of gray deformity 

On all the mingling lineaments of lime. 

How lovely the intrepid front of youth ! 

Which meek-eyed courage deck'd with freshest grace; 

Courage of soul, that dreaded not a name. 

And elevated will, that joumey'd on 

Through life's phantasmal scene in fearlessness 

With virtue, love, and pleasure, hand in hand. 



Then, that sweet bondage which is freedom's self. 

And rivets with sensation's softest tie 

The kindred sympathies of human souls, 

Needed no fetters of tyrannic law : 

Those delicate and timid impulses 

In nature's primal modesty arose. 

And with undoubting confidence disclosed 

The growing longings of its dawning love, 

Uncheck'd by dull and selfish chastity. 

That virtue of the cheaply virtuous. 

Who pride themselves in senselessness and frost. 

No longer prostitution's venom'd bane 

Poison'd the springs of happiness and life ; 

Woman and man, in confidence and love. 

Equal and free and pure, together trod 

The mountain-paths of virtue, which no more 

Were stain'd with blood from many a pilgrim's feet. 



Then, where, through distant ages, long in pride 
The palace of the monarch-slave had mock'd 
Famine's faint groan, and penury's silent tear, 
A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and threw 
Year after year their stones upon the field, 
369 



122 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Wakening a lonely echo ; and the leaves 

Of the old thorn, that on the topmost tower 

Usurp'd the royal ensign's grandeur, shook 

In the stem storm that sway'd the topmost tower, 

And whisper'd strange tales in the whirlwind's ear. 

Low through the lone cathedral's roofless aisles 
The melancholy winds a death-dirge sung : 
It were a sight of awfulness to see 
The works of faith and slavery, so vast, 
So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal ! 
Even as the corpse that rests beneath its wall. 
A thousand mourners deck the pomp of death 
To-day, the breathing marble glows above 
To decorate its memory, and tongues 
Are busy of its hfe : to-morrow, worms 
In silence and in darkness seize their prey. 

Within the massy prison's mouldering courts. 
Fearless and free the ruddy children play'd, 
Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows 
With the green ivy and the red wall-flower, 
That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom ; 
The ponderous chains, and gratings of strong iron, 
There rusted amid heaps of broken stone. 
That mingled slowly with their native earth : 
There the broad beam of day, which feebly once 
Lighted the cheek of lean captivity 
With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone 
On the pure smiles of infant playfulness : 
No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair 
Peal'd through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes 
Of ivy-finger'd winds and gladsome birds 
And merriment were resonant around. 



These ruins soon left not a wreck behind : 
Their elements, wide scatter'd o'er the globe, 
To happier shapes were moulded, and became 
Ministrant to all blissful impulses : 
Thus human things were perfected, and earth. 
Even as a child beneath its mother's love, 
Was strengthen'd in all excellence, and grew 
Fairer and nobler with each passing year. 

Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene 
Closes in stedfast darkness, and the past 
Fades from our charmed sight. My task is done : 
Thy lore is learn'd. Earth's wonders are thine own. 
With all the fear and all the hope they bring. 
My spells are past : the present now recurs. 
Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains 
Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. 

Yet, human Spirit ! bravely hold thy course, 

Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue 

The gradual paths of an aspiring change : 

For birth and life and death, and that strange state 

Before the naked soul has found its home. 

All tend to perfect happiness, and urge 

The restless wheels of being on their way, 

Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infinite life, 

Bicker and burn to gain their destined goal : 

For birth but wakes the spirit to the sense 

Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape 

New modes of passion to its frame may lend ; 

Life is its state of action, and the store 



Of all events is aggregated there 
That variegate the eternal universe ; 
( Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom. 
That leads to azure isles and beaming skies. 
And happy regions of eternal hope./ 
Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on : 
Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk. 
Though frosts may blight the freshness of its gloom. 
Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth. 
To feed with kindliest dews its favorite flower. 
That blooms in mossy banks and darksome glens. 
Lighting the greenwood with its sunny smile.) 



Fear not then, Spirit ! death's disrobing hand. 
So welcome when the tyrant is awake, 
So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch bmns ; 
'Tis but the voyage of a darksome hour. 
The transient gulf-dream of a startling sleep. 
Death is no foe to virtue : earth has seen 
Love's brightest roses on the scaflfold bloom. 
Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there. 
And presaging the truth of vision'd bliss. 
Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene 
Of link'd and gradual being has confirm'd ? 
Whose stingings bade thy heart look further still. 
When to the moonlight walk, by Henry led, 
Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of death ? 
And wilt thou rudely tear them from thy breast, 
Listening supinely to a bigot's creed, 
Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's rod. 
Whose iron thongs are red with human gore ? 
Never : but bravely bearing on, thy will 
Is destined an eternal war to wage 
With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot 
The germs of misery from the human heart. 
Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe 
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime. 
Whose impotence an easy pardon gains. 
Watching its wanderings as a friend's disease : 
Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy 
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will, 
When fenced by power and master of the world. 
Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute mind, 
Free from heart-withering custom's cold control. 
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. 
Earth's pride and meanness could not vanquish thee. 
And therefore art thou worthy of the boon 
Which thou hast now received : virtue shall keep 
Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod, 
And many days of beaming hope shall bless 
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. 
Go, happy one ! and give that bosom joy 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life and rapture from thy smile. 



The fairy waves her wand of charm. 
Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the oar. 

That roll'd beside the battlement. 
Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. 

Again the enchanted steeds were yoked. 

Again the burning wheels inflame 
The steep descent of heaven's imtrodden way. 

Fast and far the chariot flew : 

The vast and fiery globes that roU'd 

Around the Fairy's palace-gate 
Lessen'd by slow degrees, and soon arpear'd 
370 



QUEEN MAB. 



123 



Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs 

That there attendant on the solar power 

With borrow'd hght pursued their narrower way. 

Earth floated then below : 
The chariot paused a moment there ; 

The spirit then descended : 
The restless coursers paw'd the ungenial soil, 
Snuflf'd the gross air, and then, their errand done, 
Unfurl'd their pinions to the winds of heaven. 

The Body and the Soul united then. 
A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame : 
Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed ; 
Moveless awhile the dark-blue orbs remain'd : 
She look'd around in wonder, and beheld 
Henry, who kneel'd in silence by her couch. 
Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love, 
And the bright beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 



NOTES. 



Note 1, page 106, col. 1. 

The sun's unclouded orb 

RoU'd through the black concave. 

Beyond our atmosphere the sun would appear a ray- 
less orb of fire in the midst of a black concave. The 
equal diffusion of its light on earth is owing to the 
refraction of the rays by the atmosphere, and their 
reflection from other bodies. Light consists either of 
vibrations propagated through a subtle medium, or of 
numerous minute particles repelled in all directions 
from the luminous body. Its velocity greatly exceeds 
that of any substance with which we are acquainted : 
observations on the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites 
have demonstrated that light takes up no more than 
8' 7" in passing from the sun to the earth, a distance of 
95,000,000 miles. — Some idea may be gained of the 
immense distance of the fixed stars, when it is compu- 
ted that many years would elapse before light could 
reach this earth from the nearest of them ; yet in one 
year light travels 5,422,400,000,000 miles, which is a 
distance 5,707,600 times greater than that of the sun 
from the earth. 

Note 2, page 106, col. 2. 

Whilst round the chariot's way 
Innumerable systems roll'd. 

The plurality of worlds, — the indefinite immensity 
of the universe, is a most awful subject of contem- 
plation. He who rightly feels its mystery and gran- 
deur, is in no danger of seduction from the falsehoods 
of religious systems, or of deifying the principle of 
the universe. It is impossible to believe that the 
Spirit that pervades this infinite machine, begat a 
son upon the body of a Jewish woman ; or is angered 
at the consequences of that necessity, which is a 
synonyme of itself. All that miserable tale of the 
Devil, and Eve, and an Intercessor, vdth the childish 
mummeries of the God of the Jews, is irreconcila- 
ble with the knowledge of the stars. The works of 
his fingers have borne witness against him. 

The nearest of the fixed stars is inconceivably dis- 
tant from the earth, and they are probably propor- 
tionably distant from each other. By a calculation 



of the velocity of light, Sirius is supposed to be at 
least 54,224,000,000,000 miles from the earth.* That 
which appears only like a thin and silvery cloud 
streaking the heaven, is in effect composed of innu- 
merable clusters of suns, each shining with its own 
light, and illuminating numbers of planets that re- 
volve around them. Millions and millions of suns are 
ranged around us, all attended by innumerable worlds, 
yet calm, regular, and harmonious, all keeping the 
paths of immutable necessity. 

Note 3, page 112, col. 1. 

These are the hired bravoes who defend 
The tyrant's throne. 

To employ murder as a means of justice, is an 
idea which a man of an enlightened mind will not 
dwell upon with pleasure. To march forth in rank 
and file, and all the pomp of streamers and trumpets, 
for the purpose of shooting at our fellow-men as a 
mark ; to inflict upon them all the variety of wound 
and anguish ; to leave them weltering in their blood ; 
to wander over the field of desolation, and count the 
number of the dying and the dead, — are employ- 
ments which in thesis we may maintain to be neces- 
sary, but which no good man will contemplate with 
gratulation and delight. A battle, we suppose, is 
won ; — thus truth is established, thus the cause of 
justice is confirmed ! It surely requires no common 
sagacity to discern the connexion between this im- 
mense heap of calamities and the assertion of truth 
or the maintenance of justice. 

Kings, and ministers of state, the real authors of 
the calamity, sit unmolested in their cabinet, while 
those against whom the fury of the storm is directed 
are, for the most part, persons who have been trepan- 
ned into the service, or who are dragged unwillingly 
from their peaceful homes into the field of battle. 
A soldier is a man whose business it is to kill those 
who never offended him, and who are the innocent 
martyrs of other men's iniquities. Whatever may 
become of the abstract questionof the justifiableness 
of war, it seems impossible that the soldier should 
not be a depraved and unnatural being. 

To these more serious and momentous considera- 
tions it may be proper to add, a recollection of the 
ridiculousness of the military character. Its first 
constituent is obedience : a soldier is, of all descrip- 
tions of men, the most completely a machine ; yet his 
profession inevitably teaches him something of dogma- 
tism, swaggering, and self-consequence : he is like the 
puppet of a showman, who, at the very time he is made 
to strut and swell and display the most farcical airs, we 
perfectly know cannot assume the most insignificant 
gesture, advance either to the right or to the left, but 
as he is moved by his exhibiter. — Godwin's Enquirer, 
Essay v. 

I will here subjoin a little poem, so strongly expres- 
sive of my abhorrence of despotism and falsehood, 
that I fear lest it never again may be depictured so 
vividly. This opportunity is perhaps the only one 
that ever will occur of rescuing it from oblivion. 

FALSEHOOD AND VICE; 

A DIALOGUE. 

Whilst monarchs laugh'd upon their thrones 
To hear a famish'd nation's groans, 
And hugg'd the wealth wrung from their woe 
That makes its eyes and veins o'erflow,— 



* See Nicholson's Encyclopedia, art. Light. 
371 



124 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WOUKS. 



I 



Those thrones, high built upon the heaps 
Of bones where frenzied Famine sleeps, 
Where Slavery wields her scourge of iron 
Red with mankind's unheeded gore. 
And War's mad fiends the scene environ, 
Mingling with shrieks a drunken roar, 
There Vice and Falsehood took their stand, 
High raised above the unhappy land. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother ! arise from the dainty fare 

Which thousands have toil'd and bled to bestow, 

A finer feast for thy hungry ear 

Is the news that I bring of human woe. 

VICE. 

And, secret one I what hast thou done, 
To compare, in thy tumid pride, with me ? 
/, whose career, through the blasted year, 
Has been track'd by despair and agony. 

FALSEHOOD. 

What have I done !— I have torn the robe 
From baby truth's unshelter'd form. 
And round the desolated globe 
Borne safely the bewildering charm : 
My tyrant-slaves to a dungeon-floor 
Have bound the fearless innocent, 
And streams of fertilizing gore 
Flow from her bosom's hideous rent, 
Which this unfailing dagger gave .... 
I dread that blood !— no more— this day 
Is ours, though her eternal ray 

Must shine upon our grave. 
Yet know, proud Vice, had I not given 
To thee the robe I stole from heaven, 
Thy shape of ugliness and fear 
Had never gain'd admission here. 

VICE. 

And know, that had I disdain'd to toil. 
But sate in my lothesome cave the while. 
And ne'er to these hateful sons of heaven 
Gold, Monarchy, and Murder, given ; 
Hadst thou with all thine art essay'd 
One of thy games then to have play'd, 
With all thine overweening boast. 
Falsehood ! I tell thee thou hadst lost !— 
Yet wherefore this dispute ? — we tend, 
Fraternal, to one common end ; 
In this cold grave beneath my feet. 
Will our hopes, our fears, and our labors, meet. 

FALSEHOOD. 

I brought my daughter. Religion, on earth : 

She smother'd Reason's babes in their birth ; 

But dreaded their mother's eye severe, — 

So the crocodile slunk off slily in fear, 

And loosed her bloodhounds from the den .... 

They started from dreams of slaughter'd men, 

And, by the light of her poison eye. 

Did her work o'er the wide earth frightfully : 

The dreadful stench of her torches' flare. 

Fed with human fat, polluted the air: 

The curses, the shrieks, the ceaseless cries 

Of the many-mingling miseries, 

As on she trod, ascended high 

And trumpeted my victory !— 

Brother, tell what thou hast done. 

VICE. 

I have extinguish'd the noonday sun, 
In the carnage smoke of battles won : 
Famine, Murder, Hell, and Power 
Were glutted in that glorious hour 
Which searchless Pate had stamp'd for me 

With the seal of her security 

For the bloated wretch on yonder throne 

Commanded the bloody fray to rise. 

liike me he joy'd at the stifled moan 

Wrung from a nation's miseries ; 

While the snakes, whose slime even him defiled, 

In ecstasies of malice smiled : 



They thought 'twas theirs,— but mine the deed I 

Theirs is the toil, but mine the meed — 

Ten thousand victims madly bleed. 

They dream that tyrants goad them there 

With poisonous war to taint the air: 

These tyrants, on their beds of thorn, 

Swell with the thoughts of murderous fame, 

And with their gains, to lift my name. 

Restless they plan from night to morn : 

I— I do all ; without my aid 

Thy daughter, that relentless maid, 

Could never o'er a death-bed urge 

The fury of her venom'd scourge. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother, well :— the world is ours ; 
And whether thou or I have won. 
The pestilence expectant lowers 
On all beneath yon blasted sun. 
Our joys, our toils, our honors, meet 
In the milk-white and wormy winding-sheet: 
A shortlived hope, unceasing care. 
Some heartless scraps of godly prayer, 
A moody curse, and a frenzied sleep, 
Ere gapes the grave's unclosing deep, 
A tyrant's dream, a coward's start, 
The ice that clings to a priestly heart, 
A judge's frown, a courtier's smile, 
Make the great whole for which we toil ; 
And, brother, whether thou or I 
Have done the work of misery, 
It little boots : thy toil and pain, 
Without my aid, were more than vain ; 
And but for thee I ne'er had sate 
The guardian of heaven's palace-gate. 
Note 4, page 113, col. 1. 
Thus do the generations of the earth 
Go to the grave, and issue from the womb. 
One generation passeth away and another genera- 
tion cometh, but the earth abideth for ever. The sun 
also ariseth and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to 
his place where he arose. The wind goeth toward 
the south and turneth about unto the north, it whirl- 
eth about continually, and the wind retumeth again 
according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the 
sea, yet the sea is not full ; unto the place whence 
the rivers come, thither shall they return again. — 
Ecclesiastes, chap. i. 

Note 5, page 113, col. 1. 

Even as the leaves 
Which the keen frost-wind of the wanmg year 
Has scalter'd on the forest soil. 
Olrj irep <pv\\u)v yEvefi, roiijSe. Kg.1 avSpSv. 
^vWa Tct fiiv T avEixos ;)(;a//aJiff %«!, aWa Si 5-' uXt? 
TT]\Ed6(t>(ra (p-det, eapog ^' tTnyiyvcTai wpij' 
Sis av5pij)v yEverj, y plv <J>vei, j]6'' diroXrjyei. 

lAIAA. Z, I. 146. 

Note 6, page 113, col. 1. 
The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings. 
Suave mari magno turbantibus BBquora ventis 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ; 
Non quia vexari quemquam 'st jucunda voluptas, 
Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave 'st 
Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri. 
Per campos instructa, tua sine parte pericli ; 
Sed nil dulcius est bene quam munita tenere 
Edita doctrina sapientum templa serena ; 
Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre 
Errare atque viam palanteis quaerere vitae ; 
Certare ingenio; contendere nobilitate; 
Nocteis atque dies niti praestante labore 
Ad summas emergere opes, rerumque potirl. 
O miseras hominum raenteis! O pectora caeca! 
Lt7C. lib. ii. 
372 



aUEEN MAB. 



125 



Note 7, page 113, col. 2. 

And statesmen boast 
Of wealth ! 

There is no real wealth but the labor of man. 
Were the mountains of gold and the valleys of silver, 
the world would not be one grain of corn the richer ; 
no one comfort wQuld be added to the human race. 
In consequence of our consideration for the precious 
metals, one man is enabled to heap to himself luxu- 
ries at the expense of the necessaries of his neigh- 
bor; a system admirably fitted to produce all the 
varieties of disease aiid crime, which never fail to 
characterize the two extremes of opulence and penury. 
A speculator takes pride to himself as the promoter 
of his country's prosperity, who employs a number 
of hands in the manufacture of articles avowedly 
destitute of use, or subservient only to the unhallow- 
ed cravings of luxury and ostentation. The noble- 
man, who employs the peasants of his neighborhood 
in building his palaces, until "jam pauca araf.ro ju- 
gera regies moles reUnquunt" flatters himself that he 
has gained the title of a patriot by yielding to the 
impulses of vanity. The show and pomp of courts 
adduces the same apology for its continuance ; and 
many a fete has been given, many a woman has 
eclipsed her beauty by her dress, to benefit the labor- 
ing poor and to encourage trade. Who does not see 
that this is a remedy which aggravates, whilst it pal 
liates the countless diseases of society ? The poor 
are set to labor, — for what ? Not the food for which 
they famish : not the blankets for want of which 
their babes are frozen by the cold of their miserable 
hovels : not those comforts of civilization without 
which civilized man is far more miserable than the 
meanest savage; oppressed as he is by all its insidious 
evils, within the daily and taunting prospect of its 
innumerable benefits assiduously exhibited before 
him : — no ; for the pride of power, for the miserable 
isolation of pride, for the false pleasures of the hun- 
dredth part of society. No greater evidence is af- 
forded of the wide-extended and radical mistakes of 
civilized man than this fact : those arts which are 
essential to his very being are held in the greatest 
contempt; employments are lucrative in an inverse 
ratio to their usefulness :* the jeweller, the toyman, 
the actor, gains fame and wealth by the exercise of 
his useless and ridiculous art ; whilst the cultivator 
of the earth, he without whom society must cease to 
subsist, struggles through contempt and penury, and 
perishes by that famine which, but for his unceasing 
exertions, would annihilate the rest of mankind. 

I will not insult common sense by insisting on the 
doctrine of the natural equality of man. The ques- 
tion is not concerning its desirableness, but its prac- 
ticability : so far as it is practicable, it is desirable 
That state of human society which approaches nearer 
to an equal partition of its benefits and evils should 
ccBteris paribus, be preferred .- but so long as we con 
ceive that a wanton expenditure of human labor, not 
for the necessities, not even for the luxuries of the 
mass of society, but for the egotism and ostentation 
of a few of its members, is defensible on the ground 
of public justice, so long we neglect to approximate 
to the redemption of the human race. 

Labor is required for physical, and leisure for 
moral improvement : from the former of these ad 



vantages the rich, and from the latter the poor, by 
the inevitable conditions of their respective situations, 
are precluded. A state which should combine the 
advantages of both, would be subjected to the evi! 
of neither. He that is deficient in firm health, c 
vigorous intellect, is but half a man : hence it fol- 
lows, that, to subject the laboring classes to unneces- 
sary labor, is wantonly depriving them of any op- 
portunities of intellectual improvement; and that 
the rich are heaping up for their own mischief the 
disease, lassitude and ennui by which their existence 
is rendered an intolerable burthen. 

English reformers exclaim against sinecures, — but 
the true pension-list is the rent-roll of the landed 
proprietors : wealth is a power usurped by the few, 
to compel the many to labor for their benefit. The 
laws which stipport this system derive their force 
from the ignorance and credulity of its victims : they 
are the result of a conspiracy of the few against the 
many, who are themselves obliged to purchase this 
pre-eminence by the loss of all real comfort. 

The commodities that substantially contribute to 
the subsistence of the human species form a very 
short catalogue : they demand from us but a slender 
portion of industry. If these only were produced, 
and sufficiently produced, the species of man would 
be continued. If the labor necessarily required to 
produce them were equitably divided among the 
poor, and, still more, if it were equitably divided 
among all, each man's share of labor would be light, 
and his portion of leisure would be ample. There 
was a time when this leisure would have been of 
small comparative value : it is to be hoped that the 
time will come, when it will be applied to the most 
important purposes. Those hours which are not re- 
quired for the production of the necessaries of life, 
may be devoted to the cultivation of the understand- 
ing, the enlarghig our stock of knowledge, the re- 
fining our taste, and thus opening to us new and 
more exquisite sources of enjoyment. 

****** 

It was perhaps necessary that a period of monopoly 
and oppression should subsist, before a period of cul- 
tivated equality could subsist. Savages perhaps would 
never have been excited to the discovery of truth 
and the invention of art, but by the narrow motives 
which such a period affords. But surely, after the 
savage state has ceased, and men have set out in the 
glorious career of discovery and invention, monopoly 
and oppression cannot be necessary to prevent them 
from returning to a state of barbarism. — Godwin's 
Enquirer, Essay 11. See also Pol. Jus., book VIIL 
chap. 11. 

It is a calculation of this admirable author, that all 
the conveniences of civilized life might be produced, 
if society would divide the labor equally among its 
members, by each individual being employed in labor 
two hours during the day. 



* See Rousseau, 
note 7. 



' De,,rin6galit6 parmi les Hommes," 



Note 8, page 113, col. 2. 

Or religion 
Drives his wife raving mad. 

I am acquainted with a lady of considerable ac- 
complishments, and the mother of a numerons family, 
whom the Christian religion has goaded to incurable 
insanity. A parallel case is, I believe, within the ex- 
perience of every physician. 

Nam jam saepe homines patriam, carosque parentes 
Prodiderunt, vitare Acherusia templa petentes. 

LcoRETins. 
373 



126 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Note 9, page 114, col. 2. 
Even love is sold. 

Not even the intercourse of the sexes is exempt 
from the despotism of positive institution. Law pre- 
tends even to govern the indisciplinabie wanderings 
of passion, to put fetters on the clearest deductions 
of reason, and, by appeals to the will, to subdue the 
involuntary affections of our nature. Love is inevi- 
tably consequent upon the perception of loveliness. 
Love withers under constraint : its very essence is 
liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, 
jealousy, nor fear: it is there most pure, perfect, and 
unlimited, where its votaries live in confidence, 
equality, and unreserve. 

How long then ought the sexual connexion to last? 
what law ought to specify the extent of the griev- 
ances which should limit its duration? A husband and 
wife ought to continue so long united as they love 
each other : any law which should bind them to co^ 
habitation for one moment after the decay of their 
affection, would be a most intolerable tyranny, and 
the most unworthy of toleration. How odious a 
usurpation of the right of private judgment should 
that law be considered, which should make the ties 
of friendship indissoluble, in spite of the caprices, 
the inconstancy, the fallibility, and capacity for im- 
provement of the human mind. And by so much 
would the fetters of love be heavier and more unen- 
durable than those of friendship, as love is more 
vehement and capricious, more dependent on those 
delicate peculiarities of imagination, and less capable 
of reduction to the ostensible merits of the object, 

The state of society in which we exist is a mixture 
of feudal savageness and imperfect civilization. The 
narrow and unenlightened morality of the Christian 
religion is an aggravation of these evils. It is not 
even until lately that mankind have admitted that 
happiness is ihe sole end of the science of ethics, as 
of all other sciences ; and that the fanatical idea of 
mortifying the flesh for the love of God has been 
discarded. I have heard, indeed, an ignorant colle- 
gian adduce, in favor of Christianity, its hostility to 
every worldly feeling!* 

But if happiness be the object of morality, of all 
human unions and disunions ; if the worthiness of 
every action is to be estimated by the quantity of 
pleasurable sensation it is calculated to produce, then 
the connexion of the sexes is so long sacred as it 
contributes to the comfort of the parties, and is natu- 
rally dissolved when its evils are greater than its 
benefits. There is nothing immoral in this separation. 
Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independent- 
ly of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the 
temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures 
tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of 
its indiscreet choice. Love is free : to promise for 
ever to love the same woman, is not less absurd than 
to promise to believe the same creed : such a vow, 



* The fii'st Christian emperor made a law by which se- 
duction was punished with death : if the female pleaded 
her own consent, she also was punished with death; if the 
parents endeavored to screen the criminals, they were 
banished and their estates were confiscated ; the slaves 
who might be accessory were burned alive, or forced to 
swallow melted lead. The very offspring of an illegal love 
were involved in the consequences of the sentence. — 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall, etc. vol. ii. page 210. See also, 
for the hatred of the primitive Christians to love, and 
even marriage, page 269. 



in both cases, excludes us from all inquiry. The 
language of the votarist is this : The woman I now 
love may be infinitely inferior to many others ; the 
creed I now profess may be a mass of errors and 
absurdities ; but I exclude myself from all future 
information as to the amiability of the one and the 
truth of the other, resolving blindly, and in spite of 
conviction, to adhere to them. Is this the language 
of delicacy and reason ? Is the love of such a frigid 
heart of more worth than its belief? 

The present system of constraint does no more, in 
the majority of instances, than make hypocrites or 
open enemies. Persons of delicacy and virtue, un- 
happily united to one whom they find it impossible 
to love, spend the loveliest season of their life in un- 
productive efforts to appear otherwise than they are, 
for the sake of the feelings of their partner, or the 
welfare of their mutual ofispring: those of less 
generosity and refinement openly avow their disap- 
pointment, and linger out the remnant of that union, 
which only death can dissolve, in a state of incurable 
bickering and hostility. The early education of their 
children takes its color from the squabbles of the 
parents ; they are nursed in a systematic school of 
ill-humor, violence, and falsehood. Had they been 
suffered to part at the moment when indiflference 
rendered their union irksome, they would have been 
spared many years of misery ; they would have con- 
nected themselves more suitably, and would have 
found that happiness in the society of more congenial 
partners which is for ever denied them by the des- 
potism of marriage. They would have been sepa- 
rately useful and happy members of society, who, 
whilst united, were miserable, and rendered misan- 
thropical by misery. The conviction that wedlock is 
indissoluble holds out the strongest of all temptations 
to the perverse : they indulge without restraint in 
acrimony, and all the little tyrannies of domestic life, 
when they know that their victim is without appeal. 
If this connexion were put on a rational basis, each 
would be assured that habitual ill temper would ter- 
minate in separation, and would check this vicious 
and dangerous propensity. 

Prostitution is the legitimate offepring of marriage 
and its accompanying errors. Women, for no other 
crime than having followed the dictates of a natural 
appetite, are driven with fury from the comforts and 
sympathies of society. It is less venial than murder : 
and the punishment which is inflicted on her who 
destroys her child to escape reproach, is lighter than 
the life of agony and disease to which the prostitute 
is irrecoverably doomed. Has a woman obeyed the 
impulse of unerring nature ; — society declares war 
against her, pitiless and eternal war : she must be 
the tame slave, she must make no reprisals ; theirs is 
the right of persecution, hers the duty of endurance. 
She lives a life of infamy : the loud and bitter laugh 
of scorn scares her from all return. She dies of long 
and lingering disease ; yet she is in fault, she is the 
criminal, she the froward and untamable child, — 
and Society, forsooth, the pure and virtuous matron, 
who casts her as an abortion from her undefiled 
bosom! Society avenges herself on the criminals of 
her own creation ; she is employed in anathematizing 
the vice to-day, which yesterday she was the most 
zealous to teach. Thus is formed one-tenth of the 
population of London : meanwhile the evil is twofold. 
Young men, excluded by the fanatical idea of chas- 
tity from the society of modest and accomplished 
women, associate with tliese vicious and miserable 
374 



QUEEN MAB. 



127 



beings, destroying thereby all those exquisite and 
delicate sensibilities whose existence cold-hearted 
worldlings have denied; annihilating all genuine 
passion, and debasing that to a selfish feeling which 
is the excess of generosity and devotedness. Their 
body and mind alike crumble into a hideous wreck 
of humanity; idiocy and disease become perpetu- 
ated in their miserable offspring, and distant genera- 
tions suffer for the bigoted morality of their fore- 
fathers. Chastity is a monldsh and evangelical 
superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even 
than unintellectual sensuality ; it strikes at the root 
of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than 
half of the human race to misery, that some few may 
monopolize according to law. A system could not 
well have been devised more studiously hostile to 
human happiness than marriage. 

I conceive that, from the abolition of marriage, the 
fit and natural arrangement of sexual connexion 
would result. I by no means assert that the inter- 
course would be promiscuous : on the contrary ; it 
appears, from the relation of parent to child, that 
this union is generally of long duration, and marked 
above all others with generosity and self-devotion. 
But this is a subject which it is perhaps premature 
to discuss. That which will result from the abolition 
of marriage, will be natural and right, because choice 
and change will be exempted from restraint. 

In fact, religion and morality, as they now stand, 
compose a practical code of misery and servitude : 
the genius of human happiness must tear every leaf 
from the accursed book of God, ere man can read 
the inscription on his heart. How would morality, 
dressed up in stiff stays and finery, start from her own 
disgusting image, should she look in the mirror of 
nature ! 

Note 10, page 115, col. 1. 

To the red and baleful sun 
That faintly twinkles there. 

The north polar star, to which the axis of the earth, 
in its present state of obliquity, points. It is exceed- 
ingly probable, from many considerations, that this 
obliquity will gradually diminish, until the equator 
coincides with the ecliptic : the nights and days will 
then become equal on the earth throughout the year, 
and probably the seasons also. There is no great 
extravagance in presuming that the progress of the 
perpendicularity of the poles may be as rapid as the 
progress of intellect ; or that there should be a per- 
fect identity between the moral and physical im 
provement of the human species. It is certain that 
wisdom is not compatible with disease, and that, in 
the present state of the climates of the earth, health, 
in the true and comprehensive sense of the word, is 
out of the reach of civilized man. Astronomy 
teaches us that the earth is now in its progress, and 
that the poles are every year becoming more and 
more perpendicular to the ecliptic. The strong evi 
dence afforded by the history of mythology, and geo 
logical researches, that some event of this nature has 
taken place already, affords a strong presumption, 
that this progress is not merely an oscillation, as has 
been surmised by some late astronomers.* Bones of 
animals peculiar to the torrid zone have been found 
in the north of Siberia, and on the banks of the river 
Ohio. Plants have been found in the fossil state in 
the interior of Germany, which demand the present 



* Laplace, Systeme du Monde. 



climate of Hindostan for their production.t The 
researches of M. Baillyt establish the existence of a 
people who inhabited a tract in Tartary, 49° nortli 
latitude, of greater antiquity than either the Indians, 
the Chinese, or the Chaldeans, from whom these 
nations derived their sciences and theology. We find, 
from the testimony of ancient writers, that Britain, 
Germany and France were much colder than at 
present, and that their great rivers were annually 
frozen over. Astronomy teaches us also, that since 
this period, the obliquity of the earth's position has 
been considerably diminished. 

Note 11, page 116, col. 1. 
No atom of this turbulence fulfils 
A vague and unnecessitated task, 
Or acts but as it must and ought to act. 

Deux exemples serviront a nous rendre plus sen- 
sible le principe qui vient d'etre pose ; nous emprun- 
terons I'un du physique et I'autre du moral. Dans 
un tourbillon de poussiere qu'eleve un vent impetu- 
eux, quelque confus qu'il paroisse a nos yeux ; dans 
la plus affreuse tempete excitee par des vents opposes 
qui soulevent les flots, il n'y a pas une seule mole- 
cule de poussiere ou d'eau qui soit placee au hasard, 
qui n'ait sa cause suffisante pour occuper le lieu ou 
elle se trouve, et qui n'agisse rigoureusement de la 
maniere dont elle doit agir. Un geometre qui con- 
naitroit exactement les differentes forces qui agissent 
dans ces deux cas, et les proprietes des molecules 
qui sont mues, deraontreroit que d'apres des causes 
donnees, chaque molecule agit precisement comme 
elle doit agir, et ne peut agir autrement qu'elle ne 
fait. 

Dans les convulsions terribles qui agitent quelque- 
fois les societes politiques, et qui produisent souvent 
le renversement d'un empire, il n'y a pas une seule 
action, une seule parole, une seule pensee, une seule 
volonte, une seule passion dans les agens qui con- 
courent a la revolution comme destructeurs ou comme 
victimes, qui ne soit necessaire, qui n'agisse comme 
elle doit agir, qui n'opere infailliblement les efiets 
qu'elle doit operer suivant la place qu'occupent ces 
agens dans ce tourbillon moral. Cela paroitroit evi- 
dent pour une intelligence qui sera en etat de saisir 
et d'apprecier toutes les actions et reactions des 
esprits et des corps de ceux qui contribuent a cette 
revolution. — Systeme de la Nature, vol. I. page 44. 
Note 12, page 116, col. 2. 
Necessity, thou mother of the world ! 

He who asserts the doctrine of Necessity, means 
that, contemplating the events which compose the 
moral and material universe, he beholds only an im- 
mense and uninterrupted chain of causes and effects, 
no one of which could occupy any other place than 
it does occupy, or act in any other way than it does 
act. The idea of necessity is obtained by our ex- 
perience of the cormexion between objects, the 
xmiformity of the operations of nature, the constant 
conjunction of similar events, and the consequent 
inference of one from the other. Mankind are 
therefore agreed in the admission of necessity, if 
they admit that these two circumstances take place 
in voluntary action. Motive is, to voluntary action 
in the human mind, what cause is to effect in the 
material universe. The word liberty, as applied to 



t Cabanis, Rapports du Physique et du Moral de 
rriomine, vol. ii. page 406. 
X Lettres sur les Sciences, a Voltaire.— Bailly. 
375 



128 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



mind, is analogous to the word chance, as applied 
to matter : they spring from an ignorance of the 
certainty of the conjunction of antecedents and con- 



Every human being is irresistibly impelled to act 
precisely as he does act : in the eternity which pre- 
ceded his birth a chain of causes was generated, 
which, operating under the name of motives, make 
it impossible that any thought of his mind, or any 
action of his life, should be otherwise than it is. 
Were the doctrine of Necessity false, the human 
mind would no longer be a legitimate object of 
science ; from like causes it would be in vain that 
we should expect like effects ; the strongest motive 
would no longer be paramount over the conduct ; all 
knowledge would be vague and undeterminate ; we 
could not predict with any certainty that we might 
not meet as an enemy to-morrow him with whom we 
have parted in friendship to-night ; the most probable 
inducements and the clearest reasonings would lose 
the invariable influence they possess. The contrary 
of this is demonstrably the fact. Similar circum- 
stances produce the same unvariable effects. The 
precise character and motives of any man on any 
occasion being given, the moral philosopher could 
predict his actions with as much certainty as the 
natural philosopher could predict the effects of the 
mixture of any particular chemical substances. Why 
is the aged husbandman more experienced than the 
young beginner? Because there is a uniform, unde- 
niable necessity in the operations of the material 
universe. Why is the old statesman more skilful 
than the raw politician? Because, relying on the 
necessary conjunction of motive and action, he pro- 
ceeds to produce moral effects, by the application of 
those moral causes which experience has shown to 
be effectual. Some actions may be found to which 
we can attach no motives, but these are the effects 
of causes with which we are unacquainted. Hence 
the relation which motive bears to voluntary action 
is that of cause to effect ; nor, placed in this point 
of view, is it, or ever has it been the subject of 
popular or philosophical dispute. None but the few- 
fanatics who are engaged in the herculean task of 
reconciling the justice of their God with the misery 
of man, will longer outrage common sense by the 
supposition of an event without a cause, a voluntary 
action without a motive. History, politics, morals, 
criticism, all grounds of reasonings, all principles of 
science, alike assume the truth of the doctrine of 
Necessity. No farmer carrying his com to market 
doubts the sale of it at the market price. The master 
of a manufactory no more doubts that he can pur- 
chase the human labor necessary for his purposes, 
than that his machinery will act as it has been ac- 
customed to act. 

But, whilst none have scrupled to admit necessity 
as influencing matter, many have disputed its do- 
minion over mind. Independently of its militating 
with the received ideas of the justice of God, it is 
by no means obvious to a superficial inquiry. When 
the mind observes its own operations, it feels no con- 
nexion of motive and action : but as we know " no- 
thing more of causation than the constant conjunc- 
tion of objects and the consequent inference of one 
from the other, as we find that these two circum- 
stances are universally allowed to have place in vol- 
tmtary action, we may be easily led to own that they 
are subjected to the necessity common to all causes." 
The actions of the will have a regular conjunction 



with circumstances and characters; motive is, to 
voluntary action, what cause is to effect. But the 
only idea we can form of causation is a constant 
conjunction of similar objects, and the consequent 
inference of one from the other: wherever this is 
the case, necessity is clearly established. 

The idea of liberty, applied metaphorically to the 
will, has sprung from a misconception of the mean- 
ing of the word power. What is power ? — id quod 
potest, that which can produce any given effect. To 
deny power, is to say that nothing can or has the 
power to be or act In the only true sense of the 
word power, it applies with equal force to the load- 
stone as to the human will. Do you think these 
motives, which I shall present, are powerful enough 
to rouse him? is a question just as common as. Do 
you think this lever has the power of raising this 
weight ? The advocates of free-will assert that the 
will has the power of refusing to be determined by 
the strongest motive : but the strongest motive is that 
which, overcoming all others, ultimately prevails; 
this assertion therefore amounts to a denial of the 
will being ultimately determined by that motive 
which does determine it, which is absurd. But it is 
equally certain that a man cannot resist the strongest 
motive, as that he cannot overcome a physical im- 
possibihty. 

The doctrine of Necessity tends to introduce a 
great change into the established notions of morality, 
and utterly to destroy religion. Reward and punish- 
ment must be considered, by the Necessarian, merely 
as motives which he would employ in order to pro- 
cure the adoption or abandonment of any given line 
of conduct. Desert, in the present sense of the word, 
would no longer have any meaning ; and he, who 
should inflict pain upon another for no better reason 
than that he deserved it, would only gratify his re- 
venge under pretence of satisfying justice. It is not 
enough, says the advocate of free-will, that a crim- 
inal should be prevented from a repetition of his 
crimes : he should feel pain, and his torments, when 
justly inflicted, ought precisely to be proportioned to 
his fault. But utility is morality ; that which is in- 
capable of producing happiness is useless ; and though 
the crime of Damiens must be condemned, yet the 
frightful torments which revenge, under the name 
of justice, inflicted on this unhappy man, cannot be 
supposed to have augmented, even at the long-run, 
the stock of pleasurable sensation in the w^orld. At 
the same time, the doctrine of Necessity does not in 
the least diminish our disapprobation of vice. The 
conviction which all feel, that a viper is a poisonous 
animal, and that a tiger is constrained, by the inevi- 
table condition of his existence, to devour men, does 
not induce us to avoid them less sedulously, or, even 
more, to hesitate in destroying them : but he would 
surely be of a hard heart, who, meeting with a ser- 
pent on a desert island, or in a situation where it 
was incapable of injury, should wantonly deprive it 
of existence. A Necessarian is inconsequent to his 
owTi principles, if he indulges in hatred or contempt ; 
the compassion which he feels for the criminal, is 
unmixed with a desire of injuring him; he looks 
with an elevated and dreadless composure upon the 
links of the universal chain as they pass before his 
eyes ; whilst cowardice, curiosity and inconsistency 
only assail him in proportion to the feebleness and 
indistinctness with which he has perceived and re- 
jected the delusions of free-will. 

Religion is the perception of the relation in which 
376 



QUEEN lyiAB. 



129 



we stand to the principle of the universe. 'But if the 
principle of the universe be not an organic being, the 
model and prototype of man, the relation between it 
and human beings is absolutely none. Without some 
insight into its will respecting our actions, religion is 
nugatory and vain. But will is only a mode of animal 
mind ; moral qualities also are such as only a human 
being can possess ; to attribute them to the principle 
of the universe, is to annex to it properties incom 
patible with any possible definition of its nature. It 
is probable that the word God was originally only an 
expression denoting the unknown cause of the known 
events which men perceived in the universe. By the 
vulgar mistake of a metaphor for a real being, of a 
word for a thing, it became a man, endowed with 
human qualities and governing the universe as an 
earthly monarch governs his kingdom. Their ad- 
dresses to this imaginary being, indeed, are much in 
the same style as those of subjects to a king. They 
acknowledge his benevolence, deprecate his anger, 
and supplicate his favor. 

But the doctrine of Necessity teaches us, that in 
no case could any event have happened otherwise 
than it did happen, and that, if God is the author of 
good, he is also the author of evil ; that, if he is en 
titled to our gratitude for the one, he is entitled to 
our hatred for the other; that, admitting the existence 
of this hypothetic being, he is also subjected to the 
dominion of an immutable necessity. It. is plain that 
the same arguments which prove that God is the 
author of food, light, and life, prove him also to be 
the author of poison, darkness, and death. The wide- 
wasting earthquake, the storm, the battle, and the 
tyranny, are attributable to this hypothetic being, in 
the same degree as the fairest forms of nature, sun- 
shine, liberty, and peace. 

But we are taught, by the doctrine of Necessity, 
that there is neither good nor evil in the \iniverse, 
otherwise than as the events to which we apply 
these epithets have relation to our own peculiar mode 
of being. Still less than with the hypothesis of a 
God, will the doctrine of Necessity accord with the 
belief of a future state of punishment. God made 
man such as he is, and then damned him for being 
so -. for to say that God was the author of all good, 
and man the author of all evil, is to say that one 
man made a straight line and a crooked one, and an- 
other man made the incongruity. 

A Mahometan story, much to the present purpose, 
is recorded, wherein Adam and Moses are introduced 
disputing before God in the following manner. Thou, 
says Moses, art Adam, whom God created and ani- 
mated with the breath of life, and caused to be wor- 
shipped by the angels, and placed in Paradise, from 
whence mankind have been expelled for thy fault. 
Whereto Adam answered, Thou art Moses, whom 
God chose for his apostle, and intrusted with his 
word, by giving thee the tables of the law, and whom 
he vouchsafed to admit to discourse with himself. 
How many years dost thou find the law was written 
before I was created ? Says Moses, Forty. And dost 
thou not find, replied Adam, these words therein, 
And Adam rebelled against his Lord and transgress- 
ed? Which Moses confessing. Dost thou therefore 
blame me, continued he, for doing that which God 
wrote of me that I should do, forty years before I 
was created ; nay, for what was decreed concerning 
me fifty thousand years before the creation of heaven 
and earth ? — Sale's Prelim. Disc, to the Koran, page 
164. 

2X 



Note 13, page 117, col. 1. 
There is no God ! 

This negation must be understood solely to affect a 
creative Deity. The hypothesis of a pervading Spirit 
coeternal with the universe, remains unshaken. 

A close examination of the validity of the proofs 
adduced to support my proposition, is the only secure 
way of attaining truth, on the advantages of which 
it is unnecessary to descant : our knowledge of the 
existence of a Deity is a subject of such importance, 
that it cannot be too minutely investigated ; in con- 
sequence of this conviction, we proceed briefly and 
impartially to examine the proofs which have been 
adduced. It is necessary first to consider the nature 
of belief 

When a proposition is offered to the mind, it per- 
ceives the agreement or disagreement of the ideas of 
which it is composed. A perception of their agree- 
ment is termed belief. Many obstacles frequently 
prevent this perception from being immediate ; these 
the mind attempts to remove, in order that the per- 
ception may be distinct. The mind is active in the 
investigation, in order to perfect the state of percep- 
tion of the relation which the component ideas of 
the proposition bear to each, which is passive : the 
investigation being confused wdth the perception, has 
induced many falsely to imagine that the mind is 
active in belief, — that belief is an act of volition,— 
in consequence of which it may be regulated by the 
mind. Pursuing, continuing this mistake, they have 
attached a degree of criminality to disbelief; of 
which, in its nature, it is incapable : it is equally in- 
capable of merit. 

Belief, then, is a passion, the strength of which, 
like every other passion, is in precise proportion to 
the degrees of excitement. 

The degrees of excitement are three. 

The senses are the sources of all knowledge to 
the mind; consequently their evidence claims the 
strongest assent. 

The decision of the mind, founded upon our own 
experience, derived from these sources, claims the 
next degree. 

The experience of others, which addresses itself to 
the former one, occupies the lowest degree. 

(A graduated scale, on which should be marked 
the capabilities of propositions to approach to the test 
of the senses, would be a just barometer of the belief 
which ought to be attached to them.) 

Consequently no testimony can be admitted which 
is contrary to reason ; reason is founded on the evi- 
dence of our senses. 

Every proof may be referred to one of these three 
divisions : it is to be considered what arguments we 
receive from each of them, which should convince us 
of the existence of a Deity. 

1st. The evidence of the senses. If the Deity should 
appear to us, if he should convince our senses of his 
existence, this revelation would necessarily command 
belief. Those to whom the Deity has thus appeared 
have the strongest possible conviction of his existence. 
But the God of Theologians is incapable of local visi- 
bihty. 

2d. Reason. It is urged that man knows that what- 
ever is, must either have had a beginning, or have 
existed from all eternity : he also knows, that what- 
ever is not eternal must have had a cause. When 
this reasoning is applied to the universe, it is necessary 
to prove that it was created : until that is clearly 
demonstrated, we may reasonably suppose that it has 
377 



130 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



endured from all eternity. We must prove design 
before we can infer a designer. The only idea which 
we can form of causation is derivable from the 
constant conjunction of objects, and the consequent 
inference of one from the other. In a case where two 
propositions are diametrically opposite, the mind 
believes that which is least incomprehensible ; — it 
is easier to suppose that the universe has existed from 
all eternity, than to conceive a being beyond its limits 
capable of creating it : if the mind sinks beneath the 
weight of one, is it an alleviation to increase the in- 
tolerability of the burthen ? 

The other argument, which is founded on a man's 
knowledge of his ovm existence, stands thus. A man 
knows not only that he now is, but that once he was 
not ; consequently there must have been a cause. But 
our idea of causation is alone derivable from the con 
stant conjunction of objects and the consequent infer- 
ence of one from the other ; and, reasoning experi- 
mentally, we can only infer from effects, causes ex- 
actly adequate to those effects. But there certainly 
is a generative power which is effected by certain 
instruments : we cannot prove that it is inherent in 
these instruments ; nor is the contrary hypothesis ca- 
pable of demonstration : we admit that the generative 
power is incomprehensible ; but to suppose that the 
same effect is produced by an eternal, omniscient, 
omnipotent, being, leaves the cause in the same ob- 
scurity, but renders it more incomprehensible. 

3d. Testimony. It is required that testimony should 
not be contrary to reason. The testimony that the 
Deity convinces the senses of men of his existence 
can only be admitted by us, if our mind considers it 
less probable that these men should have been de- 
ceived, than that the Deity should have appeared to 
them. Our reason can never admit the testimony of 
men, who not only declare that they were eye-vsdt- 
nesses of miracles, but that the Deity was irrational; 
for he commanded that he should be believed, he 
proposed the highest rewards for faith, eternal punish- 
ments for disbelief. We can only command vol- 
untary actions ; belief is not an act of volition ; the 
mind is even passive, or involuntarily active : from 
this it is evident that we have no sufficient testimony, 
or rather that testimony is insufficient to prove the 
being of a God. It has been before shown that it 
cannot be deduced from reason. They alone, then, 
who have been convinced by the evidence of the 
senses, can believe it. 

Hence it is evident that, having no proofs from either 
of the three sources of conviction, the mind cannot 
believe the existence of a creative God : it is also 
evident, that, as belief is a passion of the mind, no 
degree of criminality is attachable to disbelief; and 
that they only are reprehensible who neglect to re- 
move the false medium through which their mind 
views any subject of discussion. Every reflecting 
mind must acknowledge that there is no proof of the 
existence of a Deity, 

God is an hypothesis, and, as such, stands in need 
of proof: the onus probandi rests on the theist. Sir 
Isaac Newton says : " Hypotheses non fingo, quicquid 
enim ex phsenomenis non deducitur, hypothesis vo- 
canda est, et hypothesis vel meta physicae, vel physicse, 
vel qualitatum occultarum, seu mechanicse, in philo- 
sophia locum non habenL" To all proofs of the 
existence of a creative God apply this valuable rule. 
We see a variety of bodies possessing a variety of 



powers : we merely know their effects ; we are in a 
state of ignorance with respect to their essences and 
causes. These Newton calls the phenomena of things; 
but the pride of philosophy is unwilling to admit its 
ignorance oi their causes. From the phenomena, 
which are the objects of our senses, we attempt to 
infer a cause, which we call God, and gratuitously 
endow it with all negative and contradictory qualities. 
From this hypothesis we invent this general name, to 
conceal our ignorance of causes and essences. The 
being called God by no means answers with the con- 
ditions prescribed by Newton ; it bears every mark 
of a veil woven by philosophical conceit, to hide the 
ignorance of philosophers even from themselves. 
They borrow the threads of its texture from the an- 
thropomorphism of the vulgar. Words have been 
used by sophists for the same purposes, from the 
occult qualities of the peripatetics to the effluvium of 
Boyle and the crinities or nebulcB of Herschel. God is 
represented as infinite, eternal, incomprehensible ; he 
is contained under every praedicate in non that the 
logic of ignorance could fabricate. Even his wor- 
shippers allow that it is impossible to form any idea 
of him : they exclaim with the French poet, 

Pour dire cc qu'il est, il faut etre lui-meme. 

Lord Bacon says, that "atheism leaves to man 
reason, philosophy, natural piety, laws, reputation, 
and every thing that can serve to conduct him to 
virtue ; but superstition destroys all these, and erects 
itself into a tyranny over the understandings of men; 
hence atheism never disturbs the government, but 
renders man more clear-sighted, since he sees nothing 
beyond the boundaries of the present life." — Bacon's 
Moral Essays. 

La premiere theologie de I'homme lui fit d'abord 
craindre et adorer les elements meme, des objets mate- 
riels et grossiers ; il rendit ensuite ses hommages a des 
agents presidents aux elements, a des genies inferieurs, 
a des heros, ou a des hommes doues de grandes qua- 
lites. A force de reflechir, il crut simplifier les choses 
en soumettant la nature entiere a un seul agent, a un 
esprit, a une ame universelle, qui mettoit cette nature 
et ses parties en mouvement. En remontant des causes 
en causes, les mortels ont fini par ne rien voir; et c'est 
dans cette obscurite qu'ils om place leur Dieu ; c'est 
dans cet abyme tenebreux que leur imagination in- 
quiete travaille toujours a se fabriquer des chimeres, 
qui les affligeront jusqu'a ce que la connoissance de 
la nature les detrompe des fantomes qu'ils ont toujours 
si vainement adores. 

Si nous voulons nous rendre compte de nos idees sur 
la Divinite, nous serons obliges de convenir que, par le 
mot Dieic, les hommes n'ont jamais pu designer que 
la cause la plus cachee, la plus eloignee, la plus incon- 
nue des effets qu'ils voyoient : ils ne font usage de ce 
mot, que lorsque le jeu des causes naturelles et con- 
nues cesse d'etre visible pour eux ; des qu'ils perdent 
le fil de ces causes, ou des que leur esprit ne peut 
plus en suivre la chaine, ils tranchent leur difficulte, 
et terminent leur recherches en appellant Dieu la 
derniere des causes, c'est-a-dire celle qui est au-dela 
de toutes les causes qu'ils connoissent; ainsi ils ne font 
qu'assigner une denomination vague a une cause 
ignoree, a laquelle leur paresse ou les homes de leurs 
connoissances les forcent de s'arreter. Toutes les fois 
qu'on nous dit que Dieu est I'auteur de quelque phe- 
nomene, cela signifie qu'on ignore comment un tel 
378 



QUEEN MAB. 



131 



ph^nomene a pu s'oplrer par le secours des forces ou 
des causes que nous connoissons dans la nature. C'est 
ainsi que le commun des hommes, dont I'ignorance 
est le partage, attribue k la Divinite non seulement 
les effete inusites qui les frappent, mais encore l^s 
evenemens les plus simples, dont les causes sont les 
plus faciles k connoitre pour quiconque a pu les me- 
diter. En un mot, I'homme a toujours respecte les 
causes inconnues des effets surprenans, que son igno- 
rance I'empechoit de demeler. Ce fut sur les debuts 
de la nature que les hommes eleverent le colosse 
imaginaire de la Divinite. 

Si I'ignorance de la nature donna la naissance aux 
dieux, la connoissance de la nature est faite pour les 
detruire. A mesure que I'homme s'instruit, ses forces 
et ses ressources augmentent avec ses lumieres ; les 
sciences, les arts conservateurs, I'industrie, lui four- 
nissent des secours ; I'experience le rassure ou lui 
procure des moyens de resister aux efforts de bien 
des causes qui cessent de I'alarmer des qu'il les a 
connues. En un mot, ses terreurs se dissipent dans 
la mdme proportion que son esprit s'eclaire. L'homme 
instruit cesse d'etre superstitieux. 

Ce n'est jamais que sur parole que des peuples 
entiers adorent le Dieu de leurs peres et de leurs 
pretres; I'autorite, la confiance, la soumission, et 
I'habitude, leur tiennent lieu de conviction et de preu- 
ves ; ils se prosternent et prient, parce que leurs peres 
leur ont appris a se prosterner et prier : mais pourquoi 
ceux-ci se sont-ils mis a genoux ? C'est que dans les 
temps eloignes leurs legislateurs et leurs guides leur 
en ont fait un devoir. " Adorez et croyez," ont-ils 
dit, " des dieux que vous ne pouvez comprendre ; rap- 
portez-vous en a. notre sagesse profonde ; nous en Sa- 
vons plus que vous sur la Divinite." Mais pourquoi 
m en rapporterois-je a vous ? C'est que Dieu le veut 
ainsi, c'est que Dieu vous punira si vous osez resister. 
Mais ce Dieu n'est-il done pas la chose en question ? 
Ce pendant les hommes se sont toujours payes de ce 
cercle vicieux; la paresse de leur esprit leur fit 
trouver plus court de s'en rapporter'au jugementdes 
autres. Toutes les notions religieuses sont fondees 
uniquement sur I'autorite ; toutes les religions du 
monde defendent I'examen et ne veulent pas que Ton 
raisonne ; c'est I'autorite qui veut qu'on croye en 
Dieu ; ce Dieu n'est lui-meme fonde que sur I'autorite, 
de quelques hommes qui pretendent le connoitre, et 
venir de sa part pour I'annoncer a la terre. Un Dieu 
fait par les hommes, a sans doute besoin des hommes 
pour se faire connoitre aux hommes. 

Ne seroit-ce done que pour des pretres, des inspires, 
des metaphysiciens que seroit reservee la conviction 
de I'existence d'un Dieu, que Ton dit neanmoins si 
necessaire.a tout le genre humain? Mais trouvons- 
nous de I'harmonie entre les opinions theologiques 
des difl^rens inspires, ou des penseurs repandus sur 
la terre ? Ceux m^mes qui font profession d'adorer le 
meme Dieu, sont-ils d'accord sur son compte ? Sont- 
ils contents des preuves que leurs coUegues apportent 
de son existence ? Souscrivent-ils unanimement aux 
idees qui'ils presentent sur sa nature, sur sa conduite, 
sur la facon d'entendre ses pretendus oracles ? Est-il 
une contree sur la terre, ou la science de Dieu se 
soit reellement perfectionnee? A-t-elle pris quelque 
part la consistance et I'uniformite que nous voyons 
prendre aux connoissances humaines, aux arts les plus 
futiles, aux metiers les plus meprises ? Des mots d'es- 
jfrit, dHmmatirialiti, de criation, de prHeslinaiion, 



de grace ; cette foule de distinctions subtiles dont la 
theologie s'est partout remplie dans quelques pays, 
ces inventions si ingenieuses, imaginees par des pen- 
seurs qui se sont succedes depuis tant de siecles, 
n'ont fait, helas ! qu'embrouiller les choses, et jamais 
la science la plus necessaire aux hommes n'a jus- 
qu'ici pu acquerir la moindre fixite. Depuis des mil- 
liers d'annees, ces reveurs oisifs se sont perpetuelle- 
ment relayes pour mediter la Divinite, pour deviner ses 
voies cachees, pour inventer des hypotheses propres 
a developper cette enigme importante. Leur peu de 
succes n'a point de^ourage la vanite theologique ; tou- 
jours on a parle de Dieu : on s'est egorge pour lui, 
et cet etre sublime demeure toujours le plus ignore 
et le plus discute. 

Les hommes auroient ete trop heureux, si, se bor- 
nant aux objets visibles qui les interessent, ils eus 
sent employe a perfectionner leurs sciences reelles, 
leurs lois, leur morale, leur education, la moitie des 
efforts qu'ils ont mis dans leurs recherches sur la Di- 
vinite. Ils auroient ete bien plus sages encore, et 
plus fortunes, s'ils eussent pu consentir a laisser leurs 
guides descBuvres se quereller entre eux, et sonder 
des profondeurs capables de les etourdir, sans se me- 
ler de leurs disputes insensees. Mais il est de I'es- 
sence de I'ignorance d'attacher de I'importance a ce 
qu'elle ne comprends pas. La vanit^ humaine fait que 
I'esprit se roidit contre les difficultes. Plus un ob- 
jet se derobe a nos yeux, plus nous faisons d'efforts 
pour le saisir, parceque des-lors il aiguillonne notre 
orgueil, il excite notre curiosite, il nous paroit inter- 
essant. En combaltant pour son Dieu chacun ne 
combattit en effot que pour les interets de sa propre 
vanite, qui de toutes les passions produits par la mal 
organisation de la society, est la plus prompte a s'alar- 
mer, et la plus propre a produire de tres grandes folies. 
Si ecartant pour un moment les idees facheuses 
que la theologie nous donne d'un Dieu capricieux, 
dont les decrets partiaux et despotiques decident du 
sort des humains, nous ne voulons fixer nos yeux que 
sur la bonte pretendue, que tous les hommes, meme 
en tremblant devant ce Dieu, s'accordent a hu don- 
ner ; si nous lui supposons le projet qu'on lui prete, 
de n'a voir travaille que pour sa propre gloire ; d'exi- 
ger les hommages des etres intelligens ; de ne cher- 
cher dans ses oeuvres que le bien-etre du genre hu- 
main ; comment concilier ses vues et ses dispositions 
avec I'ignorance vraiment invincible dans laquelle 
ce Dieu, si glorieux et si bon, laisse la plupart des 
hommes sur son compte ? Si Dieu veut etre connu, 
cheri, remercie, que ne se montre-t-il sous des traits 
favorables a tous ces etres intelligens dont il veut 
etre aime et adore ? Pourquoi ne point se manifester 
a toute la terre d'une fa^on non equivoque, bien plus 
capable de nous convaincre, que ces revelations par- 
ticulieres qui semblent accuser la Divinite d'une par- 
tialite f acheuse pour quelques unes de ses creatures ? 
Le Tout-Puissant n'auroit-il done pas des moyens 
plus convainquans de se montrer aux hommes que 
ces metamorphoses ridicules, ces incarnations pre- 
tendues, qui nous sont attestees par des ^crivains si 
peu d'accord entre eux dans les recits qu'ils en font ? 
Au lieu de tant de miracles inventes pour prouver 
la mission divine de tant de legislateurs reveres par 
les differens peuples du monde, le souverain des es- 
prits ne pouvoit-il pas convaincre tout d'un coup I'es- 
prit humain des choses qu'il a voulu lui faire connoi- 
tre ? Au lieu de suspendre un soleil dans la voute du 
379 



132 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



firmament ; au lieu de repandre sans ordre les etoiles 
et les constellations qui remplissent I'espace, n'eut-il 
pas ete plus conforme aux vues d'un Dieu jaloux de 
6a gloire et si bien intentionn^ pour I'homme, d'ecrire 
d'uae facon non sujette a dispute, son nom, ses attri- 
buts, ses volontes permanentes en caracteres ineffa9a- 
bles et lisible egalement pour tons les habitans de la 
terre ? Personne alors n'auroit pu douter de I'exis- 
tence d'un Dieu, de ses volontes claires, de ses in- 
tentions visibles. Sous les yeux de ce Dieu si terri- 
ble personne n'auroit eu I'audace de violer ses or- 
donnances ; nul mortel n'eut ose se mettre dans le 
cas d'attirer sa colere ; enfin nul homme n'eut eu le 
front d'en imposer en son nom, ou d'interpreter ses 
volontes suivant ses propres fantaisies. 

En effet, quand meme on admettroit I'existence du 
Dieu theologique, et la realite des attributs si discor- 
dans qu'on lui donne, Ton ne peut en rien conclure, 
pour autoriser la conduite ou les cultes qu'on prescrit 
de lui rendre. La theologie est vraiment le ionneau 
des Dana'ides. A force de qualites contradictoires et 
d'assertions hasardees, elle a, pour ainsi dire, telle- 
ment garote son Dieu qu'elle I'a mis dans I'irapossi- 
bilite d'agir. S'il est infiniment bon, qu'elle raison 
aurions nous de le craindre ? S'il est infiniment sage, 
de quoi nous inquieter sur notre sort ? S'il sait tout, 
pourquoi I'avertir de nos besoins, et le fatiguer de nos 
prieres ? S'il est partout, pourquoi lui elever des tem 
pies ? S'il est maitre de tout, pourquoi lui faire des 
sacrifices et des offrandes ? S'il est juste, comment 
croire qu'il punisse des creatures qu'il a remplies de 
foiblesses ? Si la grace fait tout en elles, quelle raison 
auroit-il de les recompenser ? S'il est tout-puissant, com 
ment I'oflfenser, comment lui resister ? S'il est raison 
nable, comment semettroit-il en colere centre desaveu 
gles, a qui il a laisse la liberie de deraisonner ! S'il 
est immuable, de quel droit pretendrions-nous faire 
changer ses decrets ? S'il est inconcevable, pourquoi 
nous en occuper ? S'il a parle, pourquoi l'Uni 
VERS n'est-il pas convaincu ? Si la connoissance 
d'un Dieu est la plus necessaire, pourquoi n'est-elle 
pas la plus evidente, et la plus claire ? — Systeme de 
la Nature. London, 1781. 

The enlightened and benevolent Pliny thus pub- 
licly professes himself an atheist : — Quapropter effi 
giem Dei, formamque quaerere, imbecillitatis humanae 
reor. Quisquis est Deus (si modo est alius) et qua 
cunque in parte, totus est sensus, totus est visus, totus 
auditus, totus animae, totus animi, totus sui. * * 
Imperfecta vero in homine naturag praecipua solatia 
ne deum quidem posse omnia. Namque nee sibi po- 
test mortem consciscere, si velit, quod homini dedit 
optimum in tantis vita poenis : nee mortales aeternitate 
donare, aut revocare defunctos; me facere ut qui 
vixit non vixerit, qui honores gessit non gesserit, nul 
lumque habere in praeteritura jus, praeterquam oblivi 
onis, atque ut facetis quoque argumentis societas haec 
cum deo copuletur, ut bis dena viginta non sint, et 
multa similiter eflicere non posse. — Per quae, decla- 
ratur haud dubie, naturae potentiam id quoque esse, 
quod Deum vocamus. — Plin. Nat. Hist. cap. de Deo. 

The consistent Newtonian is necessarily an atheist. 
See Sir W. Drummond's Academical Questions, chap. 
iii. — Sir W. seems to consider the atheism to which 
it leads, as a sufficient presumption of the falsehood 
of the system of gravitation : but surely it is more 
consistent with the good faith of philosophy to admit 
a deduction from facts than an hypothesis incapable 
of proof, although it might militate with the obstinate 



preconceptions of the simob. Had this author, instead 
of inveighing against the guilt and absurdity of athe- 
ism, demonstrated its falsehood, his conduct would 
have been more suited to the modesty of the sceptic 
and the toleration of the philosopher. 

Omnia enira per Dei potentiam facta sunt: imo, 
quia natura potentia nulla est nisi ipsa Dei potentia, 
artem est nos catemus Dei potentiam non intelligere, 
quatenus causas naturales ignoramus ; adeoque stulte 
ad eandem Dei potentiam recurritur, quando rei ali- 
cujus, causam naturalem, sive est, ipsam Dei poten- 
tiam ignoramus.— Spinosa, Tract. Theologico-Pol 
chap. i. page 14. 

Note 14, page 117, col. 2. 
AhaBuerus, rise ! 

" Ahasuerus the Jew crept forth from the dark 
cave of Mount Carmel. Near two thousand years 
have elapsed since he was first goaded by never-end- 
ing restlessness to rove the globe from pole to pole. 
When our Lord was wearied with the burthen, of 
his ponderous cross, and wanted to rest before the 
door of Ahasuerus, the unfeeling wretch drove him 
away with brutality. The Savior of mankind stag- 
gered, sinking under the heavy load, but uttered no 
complaint. An angel of death appeared before Aha- 
suerus, and exclaimed indignantly, ' Barbarian ! thou 
hast denied rest to the Son of Man : be it denied thee 
also, until he comes to judge the world.' 

" A black demon, let loose from hell upon Ahasu- 
erus, goads him now from country to country : he is 
denied the consolation which death affords, and pre- 
cluded from the rest of the peaceful grave. 

"Ahasuerus crept forth from the dark cave of 
Mount Carmel — he shook the dust from his beard — 
and taking up one of the skulls heaped there, hurled 
it down the eminence : it rebounded from the earth 
in shivered atoms. This was my father ! roared Aha- 
suerus. Seven more skulls rolled down from rock to 
rock; while the infuriate Jew, following them with 
ghastly looks, exclaimed — And these were my wives ! 
He still continued to hurl down skull after skull, roar- 
ing in dreadful accents — And these, and these, and 
these were my children! They could die; but I! 
reprobate wretch, alas ! I cannot die ! Dreadful be- 
yond conception is the judgment that hangs over me. 
Jerusalem fell — I crushed the sucking babe, and pre- 
cipitated myself into the destructive flames. I cursed 
the Romaiis — but, alas ! alas ! the restless curse held 
me by the hair, — and I could not die ! 

" Rome the giantess fell — I placed myself before 
the falling statue — she fell, and did not crush me. 
Nations sprung up and disappeared before me ; — but 
I remained and did not die. From cloud -encircled 
cliffs did I precipitate myself into the ocean ; but the 
foaming billows cast me upon the shore, and the 
burning arrow of existence pierced my cold heart 
again. I leaped into Etna's flaming abyss, and roared 
with the giants for ten long months, polluting with 
my groans the Moimt's sulphureous mouth — ah ! ten 
long months. The volcano fermented, and in a fiery 
stream of lava cast me up. I lay torn by the torture- 
snakes of hell amid the glowing cinders, and yet 
continued to exist. — A forest was on fire : I darted 
on wings of fury and despair into the crackling wood. 
Fire dropped upon me from the trees, but the flames 
only singed my limbs ; alas ! it could not consume 
them. — I now mixed with the butchers of mankind. 
380 



aUEEN MAB. 



133 



and plunged in the tempest of the raging battle. I 
roared defiance to the infuriate Gaul, defiance to the 
victorious German ; but arrows and spears rebounded 
in shivers from my body. The Saracen's flaming 
sword broke upon my skull: balls in vain hissed 
upon me : the lightnings of battle glared harmless 
around my loins: in vain did the elephant trample 
on me, in vain the iron hoof of the wrathful steed ! 
The mine, big with destructive power, burst upon 
me, and hurled me high in the air — I fell on heaps 
of smoking limbs, but was only singed. The giant's 
steel club rebounded from my body ; the executioner's 
hand could not strangle me, the tiger's tooth could 
not pierce me, nor would the hungry lion in the cir- 
cus devour me. I cohabitated with poisonous snakes, 
*and pinched the red crest of the dragon. The ser- 
pent stung, but could not destroy me. — The dragon 
tormented, but dared not to devour me. — I now pro- 
voked the fury of tyrants : I said to Nero, Thou art 
a bloodhound ! I said to Christiern, Thou art a blood 
hound! I said to Muley Ismail, Thou art a blood 
hound ! — The tyrants invented cruel torments, but 

did not kill me. Ha! not to be able to 

die — not to be able to die — not to be permitted to 
rest after the toils of life — to be doomed to be im- 
prisoned for ever in the clay- formed dungeon — to be 
for ever clogged with this worthless body, its load of 
diseases and infirmities — to be condemned to hold for 
millenniums that yawning monster Sameness, and 
Time, that hungry hyena, ever bearing children, and 
ever devouring again her offspring ! — Ha ! not to be 
permitted to die ! Awful avenger in Heaven, hast 
thou in thine armory of wrath a punishment more 
dreadful ? then let it thunder upon me, command a 
hurricane to sweep me down to the foot of Carmel, 
that I there may lie extended ; may pant, and writhe 
and die!" 

This fragment is the translation of part of some 
German work, whose title I have vainly endeavored 
to discover. I picked it up, dirty and torn, some 
years ago, in Lincoln's-Inn Fields. 

Note 15, page 118, col. 1. 

T will beget a Son, and he shall bear 
The sins of all the world. 

A book is put into our hands when children, called 
the Bible, the purport of whose history is briefly this 
That God made the earth in six days, and there planted 
a delightful garden, in which he placed the first pair 
of human beings. In the midst of the garden he 
planted a tree, whose fruit, although within their 
reach, they were forbidden to touch. That the Devil, 
in the shape of a snake, persuaded them to eat of 
this fruit ; in consequence of which God condemned 
both them and their posterity yet unborn, to satisfy 
his justice by their eternal misery. That, four thou- 
sand years after these events (the human race in the 
meanwhile having gone uru-edeeraed to perdition), 
God engendered with the betrothed wife of a car- 
penter in Judea (whose virginity was nevertheless 
uninjured), and begat a Son, whose name was Jesus 
Christ ; and who was crucified and died, in order 
that no more men might be devoted to hell-fire, he 
bearing the burthen of his Father's displeasure by 
proxy. The book states, in addition, that the soul of 
whoever disbeheves this sacrifice will be burned with 
everlastmg fire. 

During many ages of misery and darkness, this 
story gained implicit belief; but at length men arose 
who suspected that it was a fable and imposture, and 



that Jesus Christ, so far from being a God, was only 
a man like themselves. But a numerous set of men, 
who derived and still derive immense emoluments 
from this opinion, in the shape of a popular belief 
told the vulgar, that, if they did not believe in the 
Bible, they would be damned to all eternity; and 
burned, imprisoned, and poisoned all the unbiassed 
and unconnected inquires who occasionally arose. 
They still oppress them, so far as the people, now 
become more enlightened, will allow. 

The belief in all that the Bible contains, is called 
Christianity. A Roman governor of Judea, at the in- 
stances of a priest-led mob, crucified a man called 
Jesus, eighteen centuries ago. He was a man of pure 
life, who desired to rescue his countrymen from the 
tyranny of their barbarous and degrading superstitions. 
The common fate of all who desire to benefit man- 
kind awaited him. The rabble, at the instigation of 
the priests, demanded his death, although his very 
judge made public acknowledgment of his innocence. 
Jesus was sacrificed to the honor of that God with 
whom he was afterwards confounded. It is of im- 
portance, therefore, to distinguish between the pre- 
tended character of this being as the Son of God 
and the Savior of the world, and his real character 
as a man, who, for a vain attempt to reform the world, 
paid the forfeit of his life to that overbearing tyranny 
which has since so long desolated the universe in his 
name. Whilst the one is a hypocritical demon, who 
announces himself as the God of compassion and 
peace, even whilst he stretches forth his blood-red 
hand with the sword of discord to waste the earth, 
having confessedly devised this scheme of desolation 
from eternity ; the other stands in the foremost list of 
those true heroes, who have died in the glorious 
martyrdom of liberty, and have braved torture, con- 
tempt, and poverty, in the cause of suffering hu- 
manity.* 

The vulgar, ever in extremes, became persuaded 
that the crucifixion of Jesus was a supernatural event. 
Testimonies of miracles, so frequent in unenlightened 
ages, were not wanting to prove that he was some- 
thing divine. This belief, rolling through the lapse 
of ages, met with the reveries of Plato and the rea- 
sonings of Aristotle, and acquired force and extent, 
until the divinity of Jesus became a dogma, which 
to dispute was death, which to doubt was infamy. 

Christianity is now the established religion: he 
who attempts to impugn it, must be contented to be- 
hold murderers and traitors take precedence of hira 
in public opinion : though, if his genius be equal to 
his courage, and assisted by a peculiar coalition of 
circumstances, future ages may exalt him to a di- 
vinity, and persecute others in his name, as he was 
persecuted in the name of his predecessor in the 
homage of the world. 

The same means that have supported every other 
popular belief, have supported Christianity. War, 
imprisonment, assassination, and falsehood ; deeds of 
unexampled and incomparable atrocity, have made it 
what it is. The blood shed by the votaries of the 
God of mercy and peace, since the establishment of 
his religion, would probably suffice to drown all other 
sectaries now on the habitable globe. We derive 
from our ancestors a faith thus fostered and support- 
ed : we quarrel, persecute, and hate for its mainte- 



* Since writing this note, I have seen reason to suspect 
that Jesus was an ambitious man, who aspired to the 
throne of Judea. 

381 



/ 



134 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



nance. Even under a government which, whilst it 
infringes the very right of thought and speech, boasts 
of permitting the liberty of the press, a man is pil- 
loried and imprisoned because he is a deist, and no 
one raises his voice in the indignation of outraged 
humanity. But it is ^ver a proof that the falsehood 
of a proposition is felt by those who use coercion, 
not reasoning, to procure its admission ; and a dis- 
passionate observer would feel himself more power- 
fully interested in favor of a man, who, depending 
on the truth of his opinions, simply stated his reasons 
for entertaining them, than in that of his aggressor, 
who daringly avowing his unwillingness or incapacity 
to answer them by argument, proceeded to repress 
the energies and break the spirit of their promulgator 
by that torture and imprisonment whose infliction he 
could command. 

Analogy seems to favor the opinion, that as, like 
other systems, Christianity has arisen and augmented, 
so like them it will decay and perish ; that, as vio- 
lence, darkness, and deceit, not reasoning and persua- 
sion, have procured its admission among mankind, 
so, when enthusiasm has subsided, and time, that in- 
fallible con tro verier of false opinions, has involved 
its pretended evidences in the darkness of antiquity, 
it will become obsolete ; that Milton's poem alone 
will give permanency to the remembrance of its ab- 
surdities; and that men will laugh as heartily at 
grace, faith, redemption, and original sin, as they 
now do at the metamorphoses of Jupiter, the miracles 
of Romish saints, the efficacy of witchcraft, and the 
appearance of departed spirits. 

Had the Christian religion commenced and con- 
tinued by the mere force of reasoning and persuasion, 
the preceding analogy would be inadmissible. We 
should never speculate on the future obsoleteness of 
a system perfectly conformable to nature and reason : 
it would endure so long as they endured ; it would 
be a truth as indisputable as the light of the sun, the 
criminality of murder, and other facts, whose evi- 
dence, depending on our organization and relative 
situations, must remain acknowledged as satisfactory 
so long as man is man. It is an incontrovertible fact, 
the consideration of which ought to repress the hasty 
conclusions of credulity, or moderate its obstinacy in 
maintaining them, that, had the Jews not been a 
fanatical race of men, had even the resolution of 
Pontius Pilate been equal to his candor, the Christian 
religion never could have prevailed, it could not even 
have existed : on so feeble a thread hangs the most 
cherished opinion of a sixth of the human race 
When will the vulgar learn humility? When will the 
pride of ignorance blush at having believed before it 
could comprehend ? 

Either the Christian religion is true, or it is false 
if true, it comes from God, and its authenticity can 
admit of doubt and dispute no further than its om- 
nipotent author is willing to allow. Either the power 
or the goodness of God is called in question, if he 
leaves those doctrines most essential to the well-being 
of man in doubt and dispute ; the only ones which, 
since their promulgation, have been the subject of 
unceasing cavil, the cause of irreconcilable hatred 
If God has spoken, why is the universe not convinced ? 

There is this passage in the Christian Scriptures 
"Those who obey not God, and beheve not the Gos 
pel of his Son, shall be punished with everlasting 
destruction." This is the pivot upon which all re 
ligions turn ; they all assume that it is in our power 
to believe or not to believe ; whereas the mind can 



only believe that which it thinks true. A human 
being can only be supposed accountable for those 
actions which are influenced by his will. But belief 
is utterly distinct from and unconnected with volition: 
it is the apprehension of the agreement or disagree- 
ment of the ideas that compose any proposition. Be- 
lief is a passion, or involuntary operation of the mind, 
and, like other passions, its intensity is precisely pro- 
portionate to the degrees of excitement. Volition is 
essential to merit or demerit. But the Christian reli- 
gion attaches the highest possible degrees of merit 
and demerit to that which is worthy of neither, and 
which is totally unconnected with the peculiar 
faculty of the mind, whose presence is essential to 
their being. 

Christianity was intended to reform the world : had 
an all-wise Being planned it, nothing is more improba- 
ble than that it should have failed : omniscience 
would infallibly have foreseen the inutility of a 
scheme which experience demonstrates, to this age 
to have been utterly unsuccessful. 

Christianity inculcates the necessity of supplicating 
the Deity. Prayer may be considered under two 
points of view ; — as an endeavor to change the in- 
tentions of God, or as a formal testimony of our obe- 
dience. But the former case supposes that the ca- 
prices of a limited intelligence can occasionally in- 
struct the Creator of the world how to regulate the 
universe ; and the latter, a certain degree of servility 
analogous to the loyalty demanded by earthly tyrants. 
Obedience indeed is only the pitiful and cowardly 
egotism of him who thinks that he can do something 
better than reason. 

Christianity, like all other religions, rests upon 
miracles, prophecies, and martyrdoms. No rehgion 
ever existed, which had not its prophets, its attested 
miracles, and, above all, crowds of devotees who 
would bear patiently the most horrible tortures to 
prove its authenticity. It should appear that in no 
case can a discriminating mind subscribe to the genu- 
ineness of a miracle. A miracle is an infraction of 
nature's law, by a supernatural cause ; by a cause 
acting beyond that eternal circle within which all 
things are included. God breaks through the law of 
nature, that he may convince mankind of the truth 
of that revelation which, in spite of his precautions, 
has been, since its introduction, the subject of un- 
ceasing schism and cavil. 

Miracles resolve themselves into the following 
questions :* — Whether it is more probable the laws 
of nature, hitherto so immutably harmonious, should 
have undergone violation, or that a man should have 
told a lie ? Whether it is more probable that we are 
ignorant of the natural cause of an event, or that we 
know the supernatural one? That, in old times, 
when the powers of nature were less known than 
at present, a certain set of men were themselves de- 
ceived, or had some hidden motive for deceiving 
others ; or that God begat a son, who, in his legisla- 
tion, measuring merit by belief, evidenced himself 
to be totally ignorant of the powers of the human 
mind — of what is voluntary, and what is the con- 
trary? 

We have many instances of men telling lies ; — 
none of an infraction of nature's laws, those laws of 
whose government alone we have any knowledge 
or experience. The records of all nations afibrd in- 
numerable instances of men deceiving others, either 



* See Hume's Essays, vol. ii. page 121. 
382 



QUEEN MAB. 



135 



from vanity or interest, or themselves being deceived 
by the limitedness of their views and their ignorance 
of natural causes: but where is the accredited case 
of God having come upon earth, to give the lie to 
his own creations ? There would be something truly 
wonderful in the appearance of a ghost ; but the 
assertion of a child that he saw one as he passed 
through the church-yard is universally admitted' to be 
less miraculous. 

But even supposing that a man should raise a dead 
body to life before our eyes, and on this fact rest his 
claim to being considered the son of God ; — the Hu- 
mane Society restores drowned persons, and because 
it makes no mystery of the method it employs, its 
members are not mistaken for the sons of God. All 
that we have a right to infer from our ignorance of 
the cause of any event is, that we do not know it : 
had the Mexicans attended to this simple rule when 
they heard the cannon of the Spaniards, they would 
not have considered them as gods : the experiments 
of modern chemistry would have defied the wisest 
philosophers of ancient Greece and Rome to have 
accounted for them on natural principles. An author 
of strong common sense has observed, that " a miracle 
is no miracle at second-hand ;" he might have added, 
that a miracle is no miracle in any case ; for until 
we are acquainted with all natural causes, we have 
no reason to imagine others. 

There remains to be considered another proof of 
Christianity — Prophecy. A book is written before a 
certain event, in which this event is foretold ; how 
could the prophet have foreknown it without inspi- 
ration? how could he have been inspired without 
God ? The greatest stress is laid on the prophecies of 
Moses and Hosea on the dispersion of the Jews, and 
that of Isaiah concerning the coming of the Messiah. 
The prophecy of Moses is a collection of every pos- 
sible cursing and blessing ; and it is so far from being 
marvellous that the one of dispersion should have 
been fulfilled, that it would have been more sur- 
priging if, out of all these, none should have taken 
effect. In Deuteronomy, chap, xxviii. ver. 64, where 
Moses explicitly foretells the dispersion, he states that 
they shall there serve gods of wood and stone : "And 
the Lord shall scatter thee among all people, from the 
one end of the earth even to the other, and there thou 
shall serve other gods, which neither thou nor thy 
fathers have known, even gods of wood and stone." 
The Jews are at this day remarkably tenacious of 
their religion. Moses also declares that they shall 
be subjected to these causes for disobedience to his 
ritual : " And it shall come to pass, if thou wilt not 
hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God, to ob- 
serve to do all the commandments and statutes which 
I command you this day, that all these curses shall 
come upon thee and overtake thee." Is this the real 
reason ? The third, fourth and fifth chapters of Hosea 
are a piece of immodest confession. The indelicate 
type might apply in a hundred senses to a hundred 
things. The fifty-third chapter of Isaiah is more 
explicit, yet it does not exceed in clearness the oracles 
of Delphos. The historical proof, that Moses, Isaiah 
and Hosea did write when they are said to have 
written, is far from being clear and circumstantial. 

But prophecy requires proof in its character as a 
miracle; we have no right to suppose that a man 
foreknew future events from God, until it is demon- 
strated that he neither could know them by his own 
exertions, nor that the writings which contain the 
prediction could possibly have been fabricated after 



the event pretended to be foretold. It is more prob- 
able that writings, pretending to divine inspiration, 
should have been fabricated after the fulfilment of 
their pretended prediction, than that they should have 
really been divinely inspired; when we consider 
that the latter supposition makes God at once the 
creator of the human mind, and ignorant of its pri- 
mary powers, particularly as we have numberless 
instances of false religions, and forged prophecies of 
things long past, and no accredited case of God hav- 
ing conversed with men directly or indirectly. It is 
also possible that the description of an event might 
have foregone its occurrence; but this is far from 
being a legitimate proof of a divine revelation, as 
many men, not pretending to the character of a 
prophet, have nevertheless, in this sense, prophesied. 

Lord Chesterfield was never taken for a prophet, 
even by a bishop, yet he uttered this remarkable 
prediction : " The despotic government of France is 
screwed up to the highest pitch ; a revolution is fast 
approaching ; that revolution, I am convinced, will 
be radical and sanguinary." This appeared in the 
letters of the prophet long before the accomplishment 
of this wonderful prediction. Now, have these par- 
ticulars come to pass, or have they not ? If they have, 
how could the Earl have foreknown them without 
inspiration ? If we admit the truth of the Christian 
religion on testimony such as this, we must admit, 
on the same strength of evidence, that God has af- 
fixed the highest rewards to belief, and the eternal 
tortures of the never-dying worm to disbelief; both 
of which have been demonstrated to be involuntary. 

The last proof of the Christian religion depends 
on the influence of the Holy Ghost. Theologians 
divide the influence of the Holy Ghost into its ordi- 
nary and extraordinary modes of operation. The 
latter is supposed to be that which inspired the 
Prophets and Apostles; and the former to be the 
grace of God, which summarily makes known the 
truth of his revelation, to those whose mind is fitted 
for its reception by a submissive perusal of his word. 
Persons convinced in this manner, can do any thing 
but account for their conviction, describe the time at 
which it happened, or the manner in which it came 
upon them. It is supposed to enter the mind by 
other channels than those of the senses, and there- 
fore professes to be superior to reason founded on 
their experience. 

Admitting, however, the usefulness or possibility 
of a divine revelation, unless we demolish the foun- 
dations of all human knowledge, it is requisite that 
our reason should previously demonstrate its genu- 
ineness ; for, before we extinguish the steady ray of 
reason and common sense, it is fit that we should dis- 
cover whether we can do without their assistance, 
whether or no there be any other which may suffice 
to guide us through the labyrinth of life :* for, if a 
man is to be inspired upon all occasions, if he is to 
be sure of a thing because he is sure, if the ordinary 
operations of the spirit are not to be considered very 
extraordinary modes of demonstration, if enthusiasm 
is to usurp the place of proof, and madness that of 
sanity, all reasoning is superfluous. The Mahometan 
dies fighting for his prophet, the Indian immolates 
himself at the chariot-wheels of Brahma, the Hot- 
tentot worships an insect, the Negro a bunch of fea- 



* See Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, boolc 
iv. chap. xix. on Enthusiasm. 

383 



156 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



there, the Mexican sacrifices human victims ! Their 
degree of conviction must certainly be very strong : 
it cannot arise from conviction, it must from feelings, 
the reward of their prayers. If each of these should 
affirm, in opposition to the strongest possible argu- 
ments, that inspiration carried internal evidence, I 
fear their inspired brethren, the orthodox Mission- 
aries, would be so uncharitable as to pronounce them 
obstinate, / 

Miracles cannot be received as testimonies of a 
disputed fact, because all human testimony has ever 
been insufficient to establish the possibility of mira- 
cles. That which is incapable of proof itself, is no 
proof of any thing else. Prophecy has also been 
rejected by the test of reason. Those, then, who 
have been actually inspired, are the only true be- 
lievers in the Christian religion. 

Mox numine viso 
Virginei tumuere sinus, innuptaque mater 
Arcane stupuit compleri viscera partu 
Auctorem peritura suum. Mortalia corda 
Artificem texere poll, latuitque sub uno 
Pectore, qui totum lat^ complectitur orbem. 

Claudiam, Carmen Paschali. 

Does not so monstrous and disgusting an absurdity 
carry its own infamy and refutation with itself? 

Note 16, page 120, col. 2. 

Him (still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing. 
Which, from the exhaustless lore of human weal 
Dawns on the virtuous mind), the thoughts that rise 
In time-destroying infiniteness, gift 
With self-enshrined eternity, etc. 

Time is our consciousness of the succession of 
ideas in our mind. Vivid sensation, of either pain 
or pleasure, makes the time seem long, as the com- 
mon phrase is, because it renders us more acutely 
conscious of our ideas. If a mind be conscious of a 
hundred ideas during one minute, by the clock, and 
of two hundred during another, the latter of these 
spaces would actually occupy so much greater extent 
in the mind as two exceed one in quantity. If, there- 
fore, the human mind, by any future improvement 
of its sensibility, should become conscious of an in- 
finite number of ideas in a minute, that minute would 
be eternity. I do not hence infer that the actual 
space between the birth and death of a man will 
ever be prolonged ; but that his sensibility is per- 
fectible, and that the number of ideas which his 
mind is capable of receiving is indefinite. One man 
is stretched on the rack during twelve hours ; another 
sleeps soundly in his bed : the difference of time 
perceived by these two persons is immense; one 
hardly will believe that half an hour has elapsed, 
the other could credit that centuries had flown dur- 
ing his agony. Thus, the life of a man of virtue 
and talent who should die in his thirtieth year, is, 
with regard to liis own feelings, longer than that of 
a miserable priest-ridden slave, who dreams out a 
century of dullness. The one has perpetually cul- 
tivated his mental faculties, has rendered himself 
master of his thoughts, can abstract and generalize 
amid the lethargy of every-day business ; — the other 
can slumber over the brightest moments of his being, 
and is unable to remember the happiest hour of his 
life. Perhaps the perishing epheraeron enjoys a 
longer life than the tortoise. 



Dark flood of time I 
Roll as it listetb thee— I measure not 
By months or moments, thy ambiguous course. 
Another may stand by me on the brink. 
And watch the bubble whirl'd beyond his ken 
That pauses at my feet. The sense of love, 
The thirst for action, and the irapassion'd thought, 
Prolong my being: if I wake no more. 
My life more actual living will contain 
Than some giay veteran's of the world's cold school, 
Whose listless hours unprofitably roll. 
By one enthusiast feeling unredeem'd. 
See Godwin's Pol. Jus. vol. i. page 411; — artd 
Condorcet, Esquisse d'un Tableau Historique des 
Progres de l' Esprit Humain, Epoque ix. 

Note 17, page 120, col. 2. 

No longer now 
He slays the lamb that looks him in the face. 

I hold that the depravity of the physical and moral 
nature of man originated in his unnatural habits of 
life. The origin of man, like that of the universe 
of which he is a part, is enveloped in impenetrable 
mystery. His generations either had a beginning, or 
they had not. The weight of evidence in favor of 
each of these suppositions seems tolerably equal ; 
and it is perfectly unimportant, to the present argu- 
ment, which is assumed. The language spoken 
however by the mythology of nearly all religions 
seems to prove, that at some distant period man for- 
sook the path of nature, and sacrificed the purity and 
happiness of his being to unnatural appetites. The 
date of this event seems to have also been that of 
some great change in the climates of the earth, with 
which it has an obvious correspondence. The alle- 
gory of Adam and Eve eating of the tree of evil, 
and entailing upon their posterity the wrath of God, 
and the loss of everlasting life, admits of no other 
explanation than the disease and crime that have 
flowed from unnatural diet. Milton was so well 
aware of this, that he makes Raphael thus exhibit to 
Adam the consequence of his disobedience. 

Immediately a place 

Before his eyes appear'd : sad, noisome, dark : 
A lazar-house it seem'd ; wherein were laid 
Numbers of all diseased; all maladies 
Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms 
Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds. 
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, 
Intestine stone, and ulcer, cholic pangs, 
Daemoniac frenzy, moping melancholy. 
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, 
Marasmus and wide-wasting pestilence. 
Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums. 

And how many thousands more might not be 
added to this frightful catalogue ! 

The story of Prometheus is one likewise whicli, 
although universally admitted to be allegorical has 
never been satisfactory explained. Prometheus stole 
fire from heaven, and was chained for this crime to 
Mount Caucasus, where a vulture continually de- 
voured his liver, that grew to meet its hunger. He- 
siod says, that, before the time of Prometheus, man- 
kind were exempt from suffering ; that they enjoyed 
a vigorous youth, and that death, when at length it 
came, approached like sleep, and gently closed their 
eyes. Again, so general was this opinion, that Horace, 
a poet of the Augustan age, writes — 
Audax omnia perpeti. 
Gens huniana ruit per vetitum nefas ; 

384 



QUEEN MAB. 



137 



Aurtax lapeti genus 
Ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit: 

Post ignem aetheria domo 
Subductum, macies et nova febrium 

Terris incubuit cohors, 
Semotique piius tarda necessitas 

Lethi corripuit gradum. 

How plain a language is spoken by all this ! Prome- 
theus (who represents the human race) effected some 
great change in the condition of his nature, and ap- 
plied fire to culinary purposes ; thus inventing an ex- 
pedient for screening from his disgust the horrors of 
tlie shambles. From this moment his vitals were 
devoured by the vulture of disease. It consumed 
his being in every shape of its lothesome and infinite 
variety, inducing the soul-quelling sinkings of prema- 
ture and violent death. All vice arose from the ruin 
of healthful innocence. Tyranny, superstition, com- 
merce, and inequality, were then first known, when 
reason vainly attempted to guide the wanderings of 
exacerbated passion. I conclude this part of the 
subject with an extract from Mr. Newton's Defence 
of Vegetable Regimen, from whom I have borrowed 
this interpretation of the fable of Prometheus. 

" Making allowance for such transposition of the 
events of the allegory as time might produce after 
the important truths were forgotten, which this por 
tion of the ancient mythology was intended to tranS' 
mit, the drift of the fable seems to be this : — Man at 
his creation was endowed with the gift of perpetual 
youth ; that is, he was not formed to be a sickly suf- 
fering creature as we now see him, but to enjoy 
health, and to sink by slow degrees into the bosom 
of his parent earth, without disease or pain. Prome- 
theus first taught the use of animal food (primus 
bovem occidit Prometheus*) and of fire, with which 
to render it more digestible and pleasing to the taste. 
Jupiter, and the rest of the gods, foreseeing the con- 
sequences of these inventions, were amused or irri- 
tated at the short-sighted devices of the newly-formed 
creature, and left him to experience the sad effects 
of them. Thirst, the necessary concomitant of a 
flesh diet," (perhaps of all diet vitiated by culinary 
preparation,) "ensued; water was resorted to, and 
man forfeited the inestimable gift of health which he 
had received from Heaven : he became diseased, the 
partaker of a precarious existence, and no longer 
descended slowly to his grave."t 

But just disease to luxury succeeds, 
And every death its own avenger breeds; 
The fury passions from that blood began, 
And turn'd on man a fiercer savage — man. 

Man, and the animals whom he has infected with 
nis society, or depraved by his dominion, are alone 
diseased. The wild hog, the mouflon, the bison, and 
the wolf are perfectly exempt from malady, and in- 
variably die either from external violience, or natural 
old age. But the domestic hog, the sheep, the cow, 
and the dog, are subject to an incredible variety of 
distempers ; and, like the corrupters of their nature, 
have physicians who thrive upon their miseries. The 
eupereminence of man is like Satan's, a superemi- 
nence of pain; and the majority of his species, 
doomed to penury, disease, and crime, have reason to 
curse the untoward event, that by enabling him to 

* Plin. Nat. Hist., lib. vii. sect. 57. 

t Return to Nature. Cadell, 1811. 

2 Y 



communicate his sensations, raised him above the 
level of his fellow animals. But the steps that have 
been taken are irrevocable. The whole of human 
science is comprised in one question : — How can the 
advantages of intellect and civilization be reconciled 
with the liberty and pure pleasures of natural life ? 
How can we take the benefits, and reject the evils 
of the system, which is now interwoven with all the 
fibres of our being? — ^I believe that abstinence from 
animal food and spirituous liquors would in a great 
measure capacitate us for the solution of this import- 
ant question. 

It is true, that menial and bodily derangement is 
attributable in part to other deviations from rectitude 
and nature than those which concern diet. The mis- 
takes cherished by society respecting the connexion 
of the sexes, whence the misery and diseases of un- 
satisfied cehbacy, unenjoying prostitution, and the 
premature arrival of puberty, necessarily spring; the 
putrid atmosphere of crowded cities ; the exhalations 
of chemical processes ; the muffling of our bodies in 
superfluous apparel ; the absurd treatment of infants : 
— all these, and innumerable other causes, contribute 
their mite to the mass of human evil. 

Comparative anatomy teaches us that man resem- 
bles frugivorous animals in everything, and carnivor- 
ous in nothing ; he has neither claws wherewith to 
seize his prey, nor distinct and pointed teeth to tear 
the living fibre. A Mandarin of the first class, with 
nails two inches long, would probably find them alone 
inefficient to hold even a hare. After every subter- 
fuge of gluttony, the bull must be degraded into the 
ox, and the ram into the wether, by an unnatural 
and inhuman operation, that the flaccid fibre may 
offer a fainter resistance to rebellious nature. It is 
only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culi- 
nary preparation, that it is rendered susceptible of 
mastication or digestion ; and that the sight of its 
bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intoler- 
able lothing and disgust. Let the advocate of animal 
food force himself to a decisive experiment on its 
fitness, and, as Plutarch recommends, tear a living 
lamb with his teeth, and plunging his head into its 
vitals, slake his thirst with the streaming blood ; when 
fresh from the deed of horror, let him revert to the 
irresistible instincts of nature that would rise in judg- 
ment against it, and say, Nature formed me for such 
work as this. Then, and then only, would he be 
consistent. 

Man resembles no carnivorous animal. There is 
no exception, unless man be one, to the rule of her- 
bivorous animals having cellulated colons. 

The orang-outang perfectly resembles man both 
in the order and number of his teeth. The orang- 
outang is the most anthropomorphous of the ape tribe, 
all of which are strictly frugivorous. There is no 
other species of animals, which live on different food, 
in which this analogy exists.|; In many frugivorous 
animals, the canine teeth are more pointed and dis- 
tinct than those of man. The resemblance also of 
the human stomach to that of the orang-outang, is 
greater than to that of any other animal. 

The intestines are also identical with those of her- 
bivorous animals, which present a larger surface for 
absorption, and have ample and cellulated colons. 
The ccecum also, though short, is larger than that of 



X Cuvier, Lecons d'Anat. Comp. torn. iii. page 169, 373, 
448, 465, 480. Rees's Cycippsedia, article Man. 
385 



138 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



carnivorous animals ; and even here the orang-outang 
retains its accustomed similarity. 

The structure of the human frame then is that of 
one fitted to a pure vegetable diet, in every essential 
particular. It is true, that the reluctance to abstain 
from animal food, in those who have been long ac- 
customed to its stimulus, is so great in some persons 
of weak minds, as to be scarcely overcome ; but this 
is far from bringing any argument in its favor. A 
Iamb, which was fed for some time on flesh by a 
ship's crew, refused its natural diet at the end of the 
voyage. There are numerous instances of horses, 
sheep, oxen, and even wood-pigeons, having been 
taught to live upon flesh, until they have lothed their 
natural aliment. Young children evidently prefer 
pastry, oranges, apples, and other fruit, to the flesh 
of animals; until, by the gradual depravation of the 
digestive organs, the free use of vegetables has for a 
time produced serious inconveniences ; for a time, I 
say, since there never was an instance wherein a 
change from spirituous liquors and animal food to 
vegetables and pure water, has failed ultimately to 
invigorate the body, by rendering its juices bland 
and consentaneous, and to restore to the mind that 
cheerfulness and elasticity, which not one in fifty 
possesses on the present system. A love of strong 
liquors is also with difficulty taught to infants. Al- 
most every one remembers the wry faces which the 
first glass of port produced. Unsophisticated instinct 
is invariably unerring ; but to decide on the fitness 
of animal food, from the perverted appetites which 
its constrained adoption produces, is to make the 
criminal a judge in his own cause : it is even .worse, 
it is appealing to the infatuated drunkard in a ques- 
tion of the salubrity of brandy. 

What is the cause of morbid action in the animal 
system ? Not the air we breathe, for our fellow-deni- 
zens of nature breathe the same uninjured ; not the 
water we drink, (if remote from the pollutions of 
man and his inventions,*) for the animals drink it too; 
not the earth we tread upon ; not the unobscured 
sight of glorious nature, in the wood, the field, or the 
expanse of sky and ocean ; nothing that we are or 
do in common with the undiseased inhabitants of the 
forest. Something then wherein we differ from them : 
our habit of altering our food by fire, so that our ap- 
petite is no longer a just criterion for the fitness of its 
gratification. Except in children, there remain no 
traces of that instinct which determines, in all other 
animals, what aliment is natural or otherwise ; and 
so perfectly obliterated are they in the reasoning adults 
of our species, that it has become necessary to urge 
considerations drawn from comparative anatomy to 
prove that we are naturally frugivorous. 

Crime is madness. Madness is disease. Whenever 
the cause of disease shall be discovered, the root, 
from which all vice and misery have so long over- 
shadowed the globe, will lie bare to the ax. All the 
exertions of man, from that moment, may be consid- 
ered as tending to the clear profit of his species. No 
sane mind in a sane body resolves upon a real 
crime. It is a man of violent passions, blood-shot 



* The necessity of resorting to some means of purifying 
water, and the disease which arises from its adulteration 
in civilized countries, is sufficiently apparent. — See Dr. 
Lambe's Reports on Cancer. I do not assert that the use 
of water is in itself unnatural, but that the unperverted 
palate would swallow no liquid capable of occasioning- 
disease. 



eyes, and swollen veins, that alone can grasp tho 
knife of murder. The system of a simple diet prom- 
ises no Utopian advantages. It is no mere reform of 
legislation, whilst the furious passions and evil pro- 
pensities of the human heart, in which it had its 
origin, are still unassuaged. It strikes at the root of 
all evil, and is an experiment which may be tried 
with success, not alone by nations, but by small so- 
cieties, families, and even individuals. In no case 
has a return to vegetable diet produced the slightest 
injury; in most it has been attended with changes 
undeniably beneficial. Should ever a physician be 
born with the genius of Locke, I am persuaded that 
he might trace all bodily and mental derangements 
to our unnatural habits, as clearly as that philosopher 
has traced all knowledge to sensation. What prolific 
sources of disease are not those mineral and vegeta- 
ble poisons that have been introduced for its extirpa- 
tion ! How many thousands have become murderers 
and robbers, bigots and domestic tyrants, dissolute 
and abandoned adventurers, from the use of fer- 
mented liquors! who, had they slaked their thirst 
only with pure water, would have lived but to dif^ 
fuse the happiness of their own unperverted feelings. 
How many groundless opinions and absurd institutions 
have not received a general sanction from the sot- 
tishness and intemperance of individuals ! Who will 
assert that, had the populace of Paris satisfied their 
hunger at the ever-furnished table of vegetable 
nature, they would have lent their brutal suffrage to 
the proscription-list of Robespierre ? Could a set of 
men, whose passions were not perverted by unnatu- 
ral stimuli, look with coolness on an auto da fe? Is 
it to be believed that a being of gentie feelings, 
rising from his meal of roots, would take delight in 
sports of blood ? Was Nero a man of temperate 
life ? could you read calm health in his cheek, flushed 
with ungovernable propensities of hatred for the 
human race ? Did Muley Ismael's pulse beat evenly, 
was his skin transparent, did his eyes beam with 
healthfulness, and its invariable concomitants, cheer- 
fulness and benignity ? Though histor}' has decided 
none of these questions, a child could not hesitate to 
answer in the negative. Surely the bile-suffused 
cheek of Bonaparte, his wrinkled brow, and yellow 
eye, the ceaseless inquietude of his nervous system, 
speak no less plainly the character of his unresting 
ambition than his murders and his victories. It is 
impossible, had Bonaparte descended from a race of 
vegetable feeders, that he could have had either the 
inclination or the power to ascend the throne of the 
Bourbons. The desire of tyranny could scarcely be 
excited in the individual, the power to tyrannize 
would certainly not be delegated by a society neither 
frenzied by inebriation nor rendered impotent and 
irrational by disease. Pregnant indeed with inex- 
haustible calamity is the renunciation of instinct, as 
it concerns our physical nature; arithmetic cannot 
enumerate, nor reason perhaps suspect, the multitu- 
dinous sources of disease in civilized life. Even 
common water, that apparently innoxious pabulum, 
when corrupted by the filth of populous cities, is a 
deadly and insidious destroyer.* Who can wonder 
that all the inducements held out by God himself in 
the Bible to virtue should have been vainer than a 
nurse's tale; and that those dogmas, by which he has 
there excited and justified the most ferocious propen- 



♦ Lambe's Reports on Cancer. 
386 



CtUEEN MAB. 



139 



sities, should have alorie been deemed essential ; 
whilst Christians are in the daily practice of all those 
habits, which have infected with disease and crime, 
not only the reprobate sons, but those favored chil- 
dren of the common Father's love? Omnipotence 
itself could not save them from tlie consequences of 
this original and univereal sin. 

There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adop- 
tion of vegetable diet and pure water has not infalli- 
bly mitigated, wherever the experiment has been 
fairly tried. Debility is gradually converted into 
strength, disease into healthfulness ; madness, in all 
its hideous variety, from the ravings of the fettered 
maniac, to the unaccountable irrationalities of ill 
temper, that make a hell of domestic life, into a calm 
and considerate evenness of temper, that alone might 
offer a certain pledge of the future moral reformation 
of society. On a natural system of diet, old age 
would be our last and our only malady ; the term of 
our existence would be protracted ; we should enjoy 
life, and no longer preclude others from the enjoy- 
ment of it ; all sensational delights would be infi- 
nitely more exquisite and perfect ; the very sense of 
being would then be a continued pleasure, such as 
we now feel it in some few and favored moments of 
our youth. By all that is sacred in our hopes for 
the human race, I conjure those who love happiness 
and truth, to give a fair trial to the vegetable system. 
Reasoning is surely superfluous on a subject whose 
merits an experience of six months would set for 
ever at rest. But it is only among the enlightened 
and benevolent that so great a sacrifice of appetite 
and prejudice can be expected, even though its ulti- 
mate excellence should not admit of dispute. It is 
found easier, by the short-sighted victims of disease, 
to palliate their torments by medicine, than to pre- 
vent them by regimen. The vulgar of all ranks are in- 
variably sensual and indocile ; yet I cannot but feel 
myself persuaded, that when the benefits of vegeta- 
ble diet are mathematically proved ; when it is as 
clear, that those who live naturally are exempt 
from premature death, as that nine is not one, the 
most sottish of mankind will feel a preference to- 
wards a long and tranquil, contrasted with a short and 
painful life. On an average, out of sixty persons, 
four die in three years. Hopes are entertained that, 
in April 1814, a statement will be given, that sixty 
persons, all having lived more than three yeai*s on 
vegetables and pure water, are then in perfect health. 
More than two years have now elapsed ; not one of 
them has died ; no such example will be found in any 
sixty persons taken at random. Seventeen persons 
of all ages (the families of Dr. Lamb and Mr. New 
ton) have lived for seven years on this diet without 
a death, and almost without the slightest illness. Sure- 
ly, when we consider that some of these were infants, 
and one a martyr to asthma now nearly subdued, we 
may challenge any seventeen persons taken at ran- 
dom in this city to exhibit a parallel case. Those 
who have been excited to question the rectitude of 
established habits of diet, by these loose remarks, 
should consult Mr. Newton's luminous and eloquent 



When these proofs come fairly before the world, 
and are clearly seen by all who understand arithmetic, 



* " Return to Nature, or Defence of Vegetable Regimen." 
Cadell. 1811. 



it is scarcely possible that abstinence from aliments 
demonstrably pernicious should not become univer- 
sal. In proportion to the number of proselytes, so 
will be the weight of evidence ; and when a thou- 
sand persons can be produced, living on vegetables 
and distilled water, who have to dread no disease but 
old age, the world will be compelled to regard ani- 
mal flesh and fermented liquors as slow but certain 
poisons. The change which would be produced by 
simpler habits on political economy is sufliciently re- 
markable. The monopolizing eater of animal flesh 
would no longer destroy his constitution by devouring 
an acre at a meal, and many loaves of bread would 
cease to contribute to gout, madness and apoplexy, 
in the shape of a pint of porter, or a dram of gin, 
when appeasing the long-protracted famine of the 
hard-working peasant's hungry babes. The quantity of 
nutritious vegetable matter, consumed in fattening the 
carcass of an ox, would afford ten times the sustenance, 
undepraving indeed, and incapable of generating dis- 
ease, if gathered immediately from the bosom of the 
earth. The most fertile districts of the habitable globe 
are now actually cultivated by men for animals, at a 
delay and waste of aliment absolutely incapable of 
calculation. It is only the wealthy that can, to any 
great degree, even now, indulge the imnatural cra- 
ving for dead flesh, and they pay for the greater 
license of the privilege by subjection to supernu- 
merary diseases. Again, the spirit of the nation that 
should take the lead in this great reform, would in- 
sensibly become agricultural ; commerce, with all its 
vice, selfishness and corruption, would gradually de- 
cline ; more natural habits would produce gentler 
manners, and the excessive complication of political 
relations would be so far simplified, that every indi- 
vidual might feel and understand why he loved his 
country, and took a personal interest in its welfare. 
How would England, for example, depend on the 
caprices of foreign rulers, if she contained within 
herself all the necessaries and despised whatever 
they possessed of the luxuries of life ? How could 
they starve her into compliance with their views ? 
Of what consequence would it be that they refused 
to take her woollen jnanufactures, when large and 
fertile tracts of the island ceased to be allotted to the 
waste of pasturage ? On a natural system of diet, we 
should require no spices from India ; no wines from 
Portugal, Spain, France, or Madeira ; none of those 
multitudinous articles of luxury, for which every 
corner of the globe is rifled, and which are the causes 
of so much individual rivalship, such calamitous and 
sanguinary national disputes. In the history of mod- 
ern times, the avarice of commjrcial monopoly, no 
less than the ambition of weak and wicked chiefs, 
seems to have fomented the universal discord, to 
have added stubbornness to the mistakes of cabinets, 
and indocility to the infatuation of the people. Let 
it ever be remembered, that it is the direct influence 
of commerce to make the interval between the rich- 
est and the poorest man wider and more unconquer- 
able. Let it be remembered, that it is a foe to every 
thing of real worth and excellence in the human 
character. The odious and disgusting aristocracy 
of wealth is built upon the ruins of all that is good 
in chivalry or republicanism ; and luxury is the fore- 
runner of a barbarism scarce capable of cure. Is it 
impossible to realize a state of society, where all the 
energies of man shall be directed to the production 
of his solid happiness ? Certainly, if this advantage 
387 



140 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(the object of all political speculation) be in any] 
degree attainable, it is attainable only by a commii- ! 
nity, which holds out no factitious incentives to the 
avarice and ambition of the few, and which is inter- 
nally organized for the liberty, security and comfort 
of the many. None must be intrusted with power 
(and money is the completes! species of power) who 
do not stand pledged to use it exclusively for the 
general benefit. But the use of animal flesh and 
fermented liquors, directly militates with this equal- 
ity of the rights of man. The peasant cannot gratify 
these fashionable cravings without leaving his family 
to starve. Without disease and war, those sweeping 
curtailers of population, pasturage would include a 
waste too great to be afforded. The labor requisite 
to support a family is far lighter* than is usually 
supposed. The peasantry work, not only for them- 
selves, but for the aristocracy, the army, and the man- 
ufacturers. 

The advantage of a reform in diet is obviously 
greater than that of any other. It strikes at the root 
of the evil. To remedy the abuses of legislation, 
before we annihilate the propensities by which they 
are produced, is to suppose, that by taking away the 
effect, the cause will cease to operate. But the effi- 
cacy of this system depends entirely on the prose- 
lytism of individuals, and grounds its merits, as a 
benefit to the community, upon the total change of 
the dietetic habits in its members. It proceeds se- 
curely from a number of particular cases to one that 
is universal, and has this advantage over the contra- 
ry mode, that one error does not invalidate all that 
has gone before. 

Let not too much however be expected from this 
system. The healthiest among us is not exempt from 
hereditary disease. The most symmetrical, athletic, 
and long-lived, is a being inexpressibly inferior to 
what he would have been, had not the unnatural 
habits of his ancestors accumulated for him a certain 
portion of malady and deformity. In the most per- 
fect specimen of civilized man, something is still 
found wanting by the physiological critic. Can a 
return to nature, then, instantaneously eracidate pre- 
dispositions that have been slowly taking root in the 
silence of innumerable ages ? — Indubitably not. All 
that I contend for is, that from the moment of the 
relinquishing all unnatural habits, no new disease is 
generated : and that the predisposition to hereditary 
maladies gradually perishes, for want of its accustom- 
ed supply. In cases of consumption, cancer, gout, 
asthma, and scrofula, such is the invariable tendency 
of a diet of vegetables and pure water. 

Those who may be induced by these emarks to 
give the vegetable system a fair trial, should, in the 
first place, date the commencement of their practice 
from the moment of their conviction. All depends 
upon breaking through a pernicious habit resolutely 
and at once. Dr. Trottert asserts, that no drunkard 
was ever reformed by gradually rehnquishing his 



* It has come under the author's experience, that some 
of the workmen on an embankment in North Wales, who, 
in consequence of the inability of the proprietor to pay 
them, seldom received their wages, have supported large 
families by cultivating small spots of sterile ground by 
moonlight. In the notes to Pratt's Poem, " Bread of the 
Poor," is an account of an industrious laborer, who, by 
working in a small garden, before and after his day's 
task, attained to an enviable state of independence. 

t See Trotter on the Nervous Temperament. 



dram. Animal flesh, in its effects on the human 
stomach, is analogous to a dram. It is similar to the 
kind, though differing in the degree, of its operation. 
The proselyte to a pure diet must be warned to ex- 
pect a temporary diminution of muscular strength. 
The subtraction of a powerful stimulus will suffice 
to account for this event. But it is only temporary, 
and is succeeded by an equable capability for exer- 
tion, far surpassing his former various and fluctuating 
strength. Above all, he will acquire an easiness of 
breathing, by which such exertion is performed, with 
a remarkable exemption from that painful and diffi- 
cult panting now felt by almost every one, after 
hastily climbing an ordinary mountain. He will be 
equally capable of bodily exertion, or mental appli- 
cation, after as before his simple meal. He will feel 
none of the narcotic effects of ordinary diet. Irrita- 
bility, the direct consequence of exhausting stimuli, 
would yield to the power of natural and tranquil 
impulses. He will no longer pine under the lethargy 
of ennui, that unconquerable weariness of Hfe, more 
to be dreaded than death itself. He will escape the 
epidemic madness, which broods over its own injuri- 
ous notions of the Deity, and " realizes the hell that 
priests and beldams feign." Every man forms as it 
were his god from his own character ; to the divinity 
of one of simple habits, no offering would be more 
acceptable than the happiness of his creatures. He 
would be incapable of hating or persecuting others 
for the love of God. He will find, moreover, a sys- 
tem of simple diet to be a system of perfect epi- 
curism. He will no longer be incessantly occupied 
in blunting and destroying those organs from which 
he expects his gratification. The pleasures of taste 
to be derived from a dinner of potatoes, beans, peas, 
turnips, lettuces, with a dessert of apples, gooseber- 
ries, strawberries, currants, raspberries, and, in winter, 
oranges, apples and pears, is far greater than is sup- 
posed. Those who wait until they can eat this plain 
fare with the sauce of appetite will scarcely join 
with the hypocritical sensualist at a lord-mayor's 
feast, who declaims against the pleasures of the table. 
Solomon kept a thousand concubines, and owned in 
despair that all was vanity. The man whose hap- 
piness is constituted by the society of one amiable 
woman, would find some difficulty in sympathizing 
with the disappointment of this venerable debauchee. 
I address myself not only to the young enthusiast, 
the ardent devotee of truth and virtue, the pure and 
passionate moralist, yet unvitiated by the contagion 
of the world. He will embrace a pure system, from 
its abstract truth, its beauty, its simplicity, and its 
promise of wide-extended benefit ; unless custom has 
turned poison into food, he will hate the brutal pleas- 
ures of the chase by instinct ; it will be a contem- 
plation full of horror and disappointment to his mind, 
that beings capable of the gentlest and most admira- 
ble sympathies, should take delight in the death- 
pangs and last convulsions of dying animals. The 
elderly man, whose youth has been poisoned by in-, 
temperance, or who has lived with apparent modera- 
tion, and is aflflicted with a variety of painful mala- 
dies, would find his account in a beneficial change 
produced without the risk of poisonous medicines. 
The mother, to whom the perpetual restlessness 
of disease, and unaccountable deaths incident to 
her children, are the causes of incurable unhap- 
piness, would on this diet experience the satisfaction 
of beholding their perpetual health and natural 
388 



ALASTOR. 



141 



playfulness.* The most valuable lives are daily de- 
stroyed by diseases, that it is dangerous to palliate 
and impossible to cure by medicine. How much 
longer will man continue to pimp for the gluttony of 
death, his most insidious, implacable, and eternal 
foe? 

'AXAa SpaKwvTag aypiovs KaXeire Kai TTapSeXiii Kal 
XiovTOSf avToi Se fiia^ovetri els tJixdrr/ra KaToXnrovrtg 
iKiivoii ov6iv. tKtivois fiiv h (j>6voi rpo^fj, rjulv 6i eipov 
iariv. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

On yap ovk eariv av6pu>7ri{) Kara (piaiv t6 capKocpayuv, 
irpCiTov ii£V dni rwv ffiondrwv irjXourai ttjs KaraaKevTjs. 



* See Mr. Newton's book. His children are the most 
beautiful and healthy creatures it is possible to conceive ; 
the girls are perfect models for a sculptor ; their disposi- 
tions are also the most gentle and conciliating; the judi- 
cious treatment, which they experience in other points, 
may be a correlative cause of this. In the first five years 
of their life, of 18,000 children that are born, 7,500 die of 
various diseases ; and how many more of those that sur- 
vive are not rendered miserable by maladies not immedi- 
ately mortal? The quality and quantity of a woman's 
milk are materially injured by the use of dead flesh. In 
an island near Iceland, where no vegetables are to be got, 
the children invariably die of tetanus, before they are 
three weeks old, and the population is supplied from the 
main land. — Sir G. Mackenzie's Hist, of Iceland. See also 
Emile, chap. i. pages 53, 54, 56. 



Ovhv yap eoiKt rb avOpZirov cSifia rwv cm capKo(f)ay'i(f 
yeyovSruv, ou, ^pwirorrjs ^«'Xor?, ovk d^vrrjs ovv^os ov 
Tpa-)Q)Tris dS6vT(j)v npSacariv, oh Koi\ias evTovia, Kal irviv- 
Haros ^epixorris, Tpe'^ai, Kal KartpydaaaQai 6vvaTri to (3apv 
Kai KpeuiSes ; aXX' avrdOev tj (pvcris rrj XeiorriTi tojv 6S6vt(j)v, 
Kal TT) ajxiKporriTi too aojxaTOi, Kal tj] jxaXaKOTriTi rrjs 
y\(oaaT]s, Kal tt) npog Trixj/iv aixBXvTrjTi tov irvivnaToSj 
s^di^vvrai rriv (7apK0(payidv. Et Se Xeyels ■ne4>vK(vai aeav- 
Tov fTTi ToiavTTjv t6u>St]v, (iovyEi <payE7v, rrpiJiTov avros 
a-r:6KTUvov. dXX' oiirdj, 6id aeavrov ^fj ^prjadpLCvoi KoiriSf], 
jxrjSe TVjXTravi^ jxriSe tteMkei. d\},a ws Xi/cot, Kal apKToi, Kal 
\e6ves avToi dug kacpiovai ^ovEvovaiv, civeKe Srjyiiari /?ouv, 
)j (T(i)(jiaTi crvVy J] dpva rj Xaywoi/ 6idppr]^ov, Kal <pdy£ irpoa- 
iTEaCjv em ^Sjvtos (og eKslva. 

****** 

HfJEtf Se ovTwg cv tuj iiiaKpovw Tpv(pw[jiEV, ixxtte Srpov to 
Kpiag irpoaayopevoiiEv, EiTa 8ipu)v npog dvTd to Kpiag Sio- 
psda, dvaixiyvvvTsg sXatov, o7vov, ;/fXt, ydpov, o^og, rj ^va- 
paai Y.vpiaKolg, ^Appa6iKo7g, lotrnEp ovTuyg v£Kp6v, ivTa(pt- 
a^ovTEg. Kal yap OTug aiiTMV 6ia\v(j)ivTij)v Kal na\a')^^Ev- 
T(t)v Kal TpoTTOv Tivd KpevcrairivvTwv spyov ecTi Tfjv nixpiv 
Kparrjaai Kal SiaKpaTTidiiarig Se 6£ivdg ^aovTrjTag efiiToiei 
Kal voaSi^Eig aiTExpidg. 

OvTU) tH npioTov aypidv Ti ^uiov e6p(o6r] Kal KaKovpyov 
Eira opvig Tig tj l')(Qvg EiXKvaTo' Kal yEvofiEvov., ovto Kal 

■KpOpEXETYiGaV EV EKElVOig TO VIKOVV ini 0OVV EpyaTTIV 7i\6£y 

Kal TO Koapov -npdSaTov nai tov oiKovpov dXcKTpvova' Kal 
KaTapiKpbv OVTO tyiv diTXrj(mdv irovdiaavTEg, hiacpayds 
^po)n<x)v, Kal (pdvovg Kal lioXejxovg /rporjXdEv. 

UXovr. TTEpi Tnr capKo^oXiag. 



aias?>tor; ot tiie S»itit of SoUtuJre^ 



Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quserebam quid amarem amans amare. 

Covfess. St. August. 



PREFACE. 



The poem entitled " Alastor," may be considered as 
allegorical of one of the most interesting situations 
of the human mind. It represents a youth of uncor- 
rupted feelings and adventurous genius led forth by 
an imagination inflamed and purified through fami- 
liarity with all that is excellent and majestic, to the 
contemplation of the universe. He drinks deep of 
the fountains of knowledge, and is still insatiate. 
The magnificence and beauty of the external world 
sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions, 
and affords to their modifications a variety not to be 
exhausted, So long as it is possible for his desires 
to point towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured, 
he is joyous, and tranquil, and self-possessed. But 
the period arrives when these objects cease to suf- 
fice. His mind is at length suddenly awakened, and 
thirsts for intercourse with an intelligence similar to 
itself. He images to himself the being whom he 
loves conversant with speculations of the sublimest 
and most perfect natures, the vision in which he 



embodies his own imaginations unites all of wonder- 
ful, or wise, or beautiful, which the poet, the philoso- 
pher, or the lover could depicture. The intellectual 
faculties, the imagination, the functions of sense, have 
their respective requisitions on the sympathy of cor- 
responding powers in other human beings. The Poet 
is represented as uniting these requisitions, and at- 
taching them to a single image. He seeks in vain 
for a prototype of his conception. Blasted by his 
disappointment, he descends to an untimely grave. 
The picture is not barren of instruction to actual 
men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was avenged 
by the furies of an irresistible passion pursuing him 
to speedy ruin. But that power which strikes the 
luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and 
extinction, by awakening them to too exquisite a per- 
ception of its influences, dooms to a slow and poison- 
ous decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure its 
dominion. Their destiny is more abject and inglori- 
ous, as their delinquency is more contemptible and 
pernicious. They who, deluded by no generous er- 
ror, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful know- 
ledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving 
nothing on this earth, and cherishing no hopes be- 
yond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind 
389 



142 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with 
human grief; these, and such as they, have their 
apportioned curse. They languish, because none 
feel with them their common nature. They are 
morally dead. They are neither friends, nor lovers, 
nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor benefactors 
of their country. Among those who attempt to exist 
without human sympathy, the pure and tender-hearted 
perish through the intensity and passion of their 
search after its communities, when the vacancy of 
their spirit suddenly makes itself felt. All else, sel- 
fish, blind, and torpid, are those unforeseeing multi- 
tudes who constitute, together with their own, the 
lasting misery and loneliness of the world. Those 
who love not their fellow-beings, live unfruitful lives, 
and prepare for their old age a miserable grave. 

The good die first, 
And those whose hearts are dry as summer's dust, 
Burn to the socket ! 

December 14, 1815. 



ALASTOR; 
OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 



Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 

If our great Mother has imbued my soul 

With aught of natural piety to feel 

Your love, and recompense the boon with mine ; 

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 

With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 

And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ; 

If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood. 

And winter robing with pure snow and crowns 

Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; 

If spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes 

Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 

If no bright bird, insect or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still loved 

And cherish'd these my kindred ; — then forgive 

This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 

Kg portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Mother of this unfathomable world ! 
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved 
Thee ever, and thee only ; I have watch'd 
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, 
And my heart ever gazes on the depth 
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed 
In charnels and on coffins, where black death 
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, 
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings 
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, 
Thy messenger, to render up the tale 
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, 
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness. 
Like an inspired -and desperate alchemyst 
Staking his very life on some dark hope, 
Have I mix'd awful talk and asking looks 
With my most innocent love, until strange tears, 
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made 
Such magic as compels the charmed night 
To render up thy charge : and, though ne'er yet 
Thou hast unveil'd thy inmost sanctuary, 



Enough from incommunicable dream, 

And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought 

Has shone within me, that serenely now. 

And moveless as a long-forgotten lyre, 

Suspended in the solitary dome 

Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 

I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that my strain 

May modulate with murmurs of the air, 

And motions of the forest and the sea, 

And voice of living beings, and woven hymns 

Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. 

There was a Poet whose untimely tomb 
No human hands with pious reverence rear'd. 
But the charm'd eddies of autumnal winds 
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid 
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness ; 
A lovely youth! — no mourning maiden deck'd 
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath. 
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : 
Gentle, and brave, and generous, no lorn bard 
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh : 
He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. 
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, 
And virgins, as unknown he past, have sigh'd 
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to bum. 
And Silence, too enamor'd of that voice. 
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 

By solemn vision and bright silver dream. 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and ambient air. 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 
The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirsting lips ; and all of great. 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had past, he left 
His cold fireside and alienated home, 
To seek strange truths in undiscover'd lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness 
Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has bought 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men. 
His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps 
He, like her shadow, has pursued, where'er 
The red volcano overcanopies 
Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
With burning smoke ; or where bitumen lakes. 
On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge ; or where the secret caves. 
Rugged and dark, winding among the springs 
Of fire and poison, inaccessible 
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 
Of diamond and of gold expand above 
Numberless and immeasurable halls. 
Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines 
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. 
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 
Than gems of gold, the varying roof of heaven 
And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims 
To love and wonder; he would linger long 
In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, 
Until the doves and squirrels would partake 
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food. 
Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, 
390 



ALASTOR. 



143 



And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er 
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 
Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form 
More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step, 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste 
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange, 
Sculptur'd on alabaster obelisk, 
Of jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx. 
Dark Ethiopia on her desert hills 
Conceals. Among the ruin'd temples there, 
Stupendous columns, and wild images 
Of more than man, where marble demons watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around. 
He linger'd, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth, through the long burning day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when tbe moon 
Fill'd the mysterious halls with floating shades 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind 
Flash'd like strong inspiration, and he saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. 



Meantime an Arab maiden brought his food, 
Her daily portion, from her father's tent. 
And spread her matting for his couch, and stole 
From duties and repose to tend his steps : — 
Enamor'd, yet not daring for deep awe 
To speak her love : — and watch'd his nightly sleep. 
Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath 
Of innocent dreams arose : then, when red morn 
Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home, 
Wilder'd and wan and panting, she return'd 

The Poet wandering on, through Arabie 
And Persia, ^nd the wild Carmanian waste. 
And o'er the aerial mountains which pour down 
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves. 
In joy and exultation held his way. 
Till in the vale of Cachmire, far within 
Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine 
Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower. 
Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretch'd 
His languid Umbs. A vision on his sleep 
There came, a dream of hopes that never yet 
Had flush'd his cheek. He dream'd a veiled maid 
Sate near him, talking in low silver tones. 
Her voice was like the voice of his own soul 
Heard in the calm of thought : its music long. 
Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held 
His inmost sense suspended in its web 
Of many-color'd woof and shifting hues. 
Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme. 
And lofty hopes of divine liberty. 
Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy. 
Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame 
A permeating fire: wild numbers then 
She raised, with voice stif?ed in tremulous sobs 



Subdued by its own pathos : her fair hands 

Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp 

Strange symphony, and in their branching veins 

The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 

The beating of her heart was heard to fill 

The pauses of her music, and her breath 

Tumultuously accorded with those fits 

Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose. 

As if her heart impatiently endured 

Its bursting burthen : at the sound he turn'd, 

And saw by the warm light of their own life 

Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil 

Of woven wind ; her outspread arms now bare, 

Her dark locks floating in the breath of night. 

Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 

Outstretch'd, and pale, and quivering eagerly. 

His strong heart sunk and sicken'd with excess 

Of love. He rear'd his shuddering limbs, and quell'd 

His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet 

Her panting bosom : — she drew back awhile. 

Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, 

With frantic gesture and short breathless cry 

Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 

Now blackness veil'd his dizzy eyes, and night 

Involved and swallow'd up the vision ; sleep, 

Like a dark flood suspended in its course, 

RoU'd back its impulse on his vacant brain. 



Roused by the shock, he started from his trance — 

The cold white light of morning, the blue moon 

Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, 

The distinct valley and the vacant woods. 

Spread round where he stood. — Whither have fled 

The hues of heaven that canopied his bower 

Of yesternight ? The sounds that soothed his sleep. 

The mystery and the majesty of earth, 

The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes 

Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 

As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. 

The spirit of sweet human love has sent 

A vision to the sleep of him who spurn'd 

Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 

Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade : 

He overleaps the bound. Alas ! alas ! 

Were limbs and breath, and being intertwined 

Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, for ever lost, 

In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 

That beautiful shape ! does the dark gate of death 

Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 

O Sleep? Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds. 

And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake, 

Lead only to a black and watery depth. 

While death's blue vault with lotheliest vapors hung 

Where every shade which the foul grave exhales 

Hides its dead eye from the detested day. 

Conduct, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms ? 

This doubt with sudden tide flow'd on his heart. 

The insatiate hope, which it awaken'd, stung 

His brain even like despair. 



While daylight held 
The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
With his still soul. At night the passion came. 
Like the fierce fiend of a distemper'd dream, 
And shook him from his rest, and led him forth 
Into the darkness. — As an eagle grasp'd 
391 



144 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast 

Burn with the poison, and precipitates 

Through night and day, tempest, and calm and cloud 

Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight 

O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus driven 

By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, 

Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night, 

Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells 

Startling with careless step the moonlight snake, 

He fled — Red morning dawn'd upon his flight, 

Shedding the mockery of its vital hues 

Upon his cheek of death. He wander'd on ; 

Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep 

Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud ; 

Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs 

Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind 

Their wasting dust, wildly he wander'd on, 

Day after day, a weary waste of hours, 

Bearing within his life the brooding care 

That ever fed on its decaying flame. 

And now his limbs were lean ; his scatter'd hair, 

Sered by the autumn of strange suflfering, 

Sung dirges in the wind ; his listless hand 

Hung like dead bone within its wither'd skin ; 

Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone 

As in a furnace burning secretly 

From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers. 

Who moisten'd with human charity 

His human wants, beheld with wondering awe 

Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer, 

Encountering on some dizzy precipice 

That spectral form, deem'd that the Spirit of wind, 

With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet 

Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused 

In his career. The infant would conceal 

His troubled visage in his mother's robe, 

In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, 

To remember their strange light in many a dream 

Of after-times : but youthful maidens taught 

By nature, would interpret half the woe 

That wasted him, would call him with false names 

Brother, and friend, would press his pallid hand 

At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path 

Of his departure from their father's door. 



At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore 
He paused, a vdde and melancholy waste 
Of putrid marshes — a strong impulse urged 
His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there 
Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. 
It rose as he approach'd, and with strong wings 
Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course 
High over the immeasurable main. 
His eyes pursued its flight : — " Thou hast a home. 
Beautiful bird : thou voyagest to thine home. 
Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck 
With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes 
Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. 
And what am I, that I should linger here. 
With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes. 
Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned 
To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers 
In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven. 
That echoes not my thoughts ? " A gloomy smile 
Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips. 
For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly 



Its precious charge, and silent death exposed. 

Faithless, perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, 

With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms 

Startled by his own thoughts he look'd around. 
There was no fair fiend near him, not a sigh 
Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. 
A little shallop floating near the shore 
Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. 
It had been long abandon'd, for its sides 
Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints 
Sway'd with the undulations of the tide. 
A restless impulse urged him to embark, 
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste ; 
For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves 
The shmy caverns of the populous deep. 

The day was fair and sunny : sea and sky 
Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind 
Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves 
Following his eager soul, the wanderer 
Leap'd in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft 
On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat. 
And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea 
Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 

As one that in a silver vision floats 

Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds 

Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 

Along the dark and ruflfled waters fled 

The straining boat. — A whirlwind swept it on, 

With fierce gusts and precipitating force. 

Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. 

The waves arose. Higher and higher still 

Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's 

scourge, 
Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp. 
Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 
Of wave running on wave, and blast on blast 
Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven 
With dark obliterating course, he sate : 
As if their genii were the ministers 
Appointed to conduct him to the light 
Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate 
Holding the steady helm. Evening came on. 
The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues 
High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray 
That canopied his path o'er the waste deep ; 
Twilight, ascending slowly from the east. 
Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks 
O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of day ; 
Night follow'd, clad with stars. On every side 
More horribly the multitudinous streams 
Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war 
Rush'd in dark tumult thundering, as to mock 
The calm and spangled sky. The little boat 
Still fled before the storm ; still fled, like foam 
Down the steep cataract of a wintry river ; 
Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave ; 
Now leaving far behind the bursting mass 
That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely fled — 
As if that frail and wasted human form 
Had been an elemental god. 

At midnight 
The moon arose : and lo ! the ethereal cliflS 
Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
392 



ALASTOK. 



145 



Among the stars like sunlight, and around 
Whose cavern'd base the whirlpools and the waves 
Bursting and eddying irresistibly 
Rage and resound for ever. — Who shall save ? 
The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent drove,— 
The crags closed round with black and jagged arms, 
The shatter'd mountain overhung the sea, 
And faster still, beyond all human speed. 
Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave, 
The little boat was driven. A cavern there 
Yawn'd, and amid its slant and winding depths 
Ingulf'd the rushing sea. The boat fled on 
With unrelaxing speed. " Vision and Love ! " 
The Poet cried aloud, " I have beheld 
The path of thy departure. Sleep and death 
Shall not divide us long." 

The boat pursued 
The windings of the cavern. — Daylight shone 
At length upon that gloomy river's flow ; 
Now, where the fiercest war among the waves 
Is calm, on the unfathomable stream 
The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain riven 
Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, 
Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell 
Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass 
Fill'd with one whirlpool all that ample chasm ; 
Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, 
Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
With alternating dash the gnarled roots 
Of mighty trees, that stretch'd their giant arms 
In darkness over it. I' the midst was left, 
Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, 
A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. 
' Seized by the sway of the ascending stream, 
i With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, and round, 
I Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, 
Till on the verge of the extremest curve, 
I Where through an opening of the rocky bank 
1 The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 
Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides 
Is left, the boat paused shuddering. Shall it sink 
Down the abyss ? Shall the reverting stress 
Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 
Now shall it fall ? A wandering stream of wind, 
Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded 

sail, 
And, lo ! with gentle motion between banks 
Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream. 
Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark ! 
The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar 
With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. 
Where the embowering trees recede, and leave 
A little space of green expanse, the cove 
Is* closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers 
For ever gaze on their owni drooping eyes, 
Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave 
Of the boat's motion marr'd their pensive task. 
Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton wind, 
Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay 
Had e'er disturb'd before. The Poet long'd 
To deck with their bright hues his wither'd hair, 
Bat on his heart its solitude retum'd. 
And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid 
In those flush'd cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy 

frame, 
Had ye I perform'd its ministry : it hung 
2Z 



Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 
Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods 
Of night close over it. 

The noonday sun 
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass 
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence 
A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, 
Scoop'd in the dark base of those aery rocks, 
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever. 
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves 
Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
By love, or dream, or God, or mightier Death, 
He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank, 
Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark 
And dark the shades accumulate — the oak. 
Expanding its immeasurable arms. 
Embraces the light beach. The pyramids 
Of the tall cedar overarching, frame 
Most solemn domes within, and far below, 
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
The ash and the acacia floating hang 
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed 
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, 
Starr'd with ten thousand blossoms, flow around 
The gray trunks, and as gamesome infants' eyes, 
With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles, 
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love. 
These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs, 
Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves 
Make net- work of the dark-blue light of day. 
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable 
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns 
Beneath these canopies extend their swells, 
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms 
Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jas- 
mine, 
A soul-dissolving odor, to invite 
To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell, 
Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep 
Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades 
Like vaporous shapes half seen ; beyond, a well, 
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave. 
Images all the woven boughs above. 
And each depending leaf, and every speck 
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms : 
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star 
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, 
Or, painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon, 
Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, 
Unconscions of the day, ere yet his wings 
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. 



Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld 
Their own wan light through the reflected lines 
Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth 
Of that still fountain ; as the human heart. 
Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, 
Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard 
The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung 
Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel 
An unaccustomed presence, and the sound 
Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs 
Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seem'd 
To stand beside him — clothed in no bright robes 
393 



146 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, 
Borrow'd from aught the visible world afibrds 
Of grace, or majesty, or mystery ; 
But undulating woods, and silent well, 
And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 
Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming 
Held commune with him, as if he and it 
Were all that was, — only — when his regard 
Was raised by intense pensiveness — two eyes, 
Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought. 
And seem'd with their serene and azure smiles 
To beckon him. 



Obedient to the light 
That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing 
The windings of the dell. — The rivulet 
Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine 
Beneath the forest flow'd. Sometimes it fell 
Among the moss with hollow harmony 
Dark and profound. Now on the polish'd stones 
It danced, hke childhood laughing as it went : 
Then through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, 
Reflecting every herb and drooping bud 
That overhung its quietness. — " O stream ! 
Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness. 
Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs, 
Thy searchless fountain and invisible course 
Have each their type in me : and the wide sky, 
And measureless ocean may declare as soon 
What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 
Contains thy waters, as the universe 
Tell where these living thoughts reside, when strelch'd 
Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste 
r the passing wind!" 

Beside the grassy shore 
Of the small stream he went ; he did impress 
On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught 
Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one 
Roused by some joyous madness from the couch 
Of fever, he did move ; yet, not like him, 
Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame 
Of his frail exultation shall be spent. 
He must descend. With rapid steps he went 
Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow 
Of the wild babbUng rivulet ; and now 
The forest's solemn canopies were changed 
For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. 
Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and 

stemm'd 
The struggling brook : tall spires of windle-strae 
Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope, 
And naught but gnarled roots of ancient pines. 
Branchless and blasted, clench'd with grasping roots 
The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here, 
Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away. 
The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin 
And white ; and where irradiate dewy eyes 
Had shone, gleam stony orbs : so from his steps 
Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade 
Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds 
And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued 
The stream, that with a larger volume now 
RoU'd through the labyrinthine dell ; and there 
Fretted a path through its descending curves 



With its wintry speed. On every side now rose 

Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms. 

Lifted their black and barren pinnacles 

In the light of evening, and its precipice 

Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 

'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs, and yawning caves 

Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues 

To the loud stream. Lo ! Where the pass expands 

Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, 

And seems, with its accumulated crags. 

To overhang the world : far wide expand 

Beneath the wan stars and descending moon 

Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams. 

Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom 

Of leaden-color'd even, and fiery hills 

Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge 

Of the remote horizon. The near scene, 

In naked and severe simplicity. 

Made contrast with the universe. A pine, 

Rock-rooted, stretch'd athwart the vacancy 

Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast 

Yielding one only response at each pause, 

In most familiar cadence, with the howl 

The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams 

Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river, 

Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, 

Fell into that immeasurable void 

Scattering its waters to the passing winds. 



Yet the gray precipice, and solemn pine 
And torrent, were not all ; — one silent nook 
Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain. 
Upheld by knotty TOots and fallen roc^s, 
It overlook'd in its serenity 
The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars. 
It was a tranquil spot, that seem'd to smile 
Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasp'd 
The fissured stones with its entwining arms. 
And did embower with leaves for ever green, 
And berries dark, the smooth and even space 
Of its inviolated floor ; and here 
The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore. 
In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose decay 
Red, yellow, or ethereally pale. 
Rival the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt 
Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach 
The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, 
One human step alone, has ever broken 
The stillness of its solitude : — one voice 
Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that voice 
Which hither came, floating among the winds, 
And led the loveliest among human forms 
To make their wild haunts the depository 
Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
Its motions, render up its majesty. 
Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm, 
And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould, 
Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss, 
Commit the colors of that varying cheek. 
That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes 



The dim and homed moon hung low, and povur'd 
A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 
That overflow'd its mountains. Yellow mist 
Fill'd the unbounded atmosphere, and drank 
Wan moonlight even to fullness : not a star 
394 



ALASTOR. 



147 



Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds, 

Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice 

Slept, clasp'd in his embrace. — O, storm of death ! 

Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night : 

And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 

(Juiding its irresistible career 

In thy devastating omnipotence. 

Art King of this frail world, from the red field 

Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital. 

The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed 

Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, 

A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls 

His Brother Death. A rare and regal prey 

He hath prepared, prowling around the world ; 

Glutted with which, thou mayest repose, and men 

Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms, 

Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine 

The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 

When on the threshold of the green recess 
The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death 
Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, 
Did he resign his high and holy soul 
To images of the majestic past, 
That paused within his passive being now, 
Like winds that bear sweet music, when they 

breathe 
Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place 
His pale lean hand upop the rugged trunk 
Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone 
Reclined his languid head ; his limbs did rest, 
Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink 
Of that obscurest chasm; — and thus he lay. 
Surrendering to their final impulses 
The hovering powers of life. Hope and Despair, 
The torturers, slept : no mortal pain or fear 
Marr'd his repose, the influxes of sense, 
And his own being unalloy'd by pain, 
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 
The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there 
At peace, and faintly smiling : — his }f^t sight 
Was the great moon, which o'er the western line 
Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended. 
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seem'd 
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 
It rests, and still as the divided frame 
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, 
That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still : 
And when two lessening points of light alone 
Gleam'd through the darkness, the alternate gasp 
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir 
The stagnate night : — till the minutest ray 
Was quench'd, the pulse yet linger'd in his heart. 
It paused — it flutter'd. But when heaven remain'd 
Utterly black, the murky shades involved 
An image, silent, cold, and motionless. 
As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. 
Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 



That minister'd on sunlight, ere the west 

Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame — 

No sense, no motion, no divinity — 

A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings 

The breath of heaven did wander — a bright stream 

Once fed with many-voiced waves — a dream 

Of youth, which night and time have quench'd for 

ever, 
Still, dark, and dry, and unreraember'd now. 

O, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, 
Which, wheresoe'er it fell, made the earth gleam 
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale 
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! O, that God, 
Profuse of poisons, would conceal the chalice 
Which but one living man has drain'd, who now, 
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels 
No proud exemption in the blighting curse 
He bears, over the world wanders for ever, 
Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the dream 
Of dark magician in his vision'd cave, 
Raking the cinders of a crucible 
For life and power, even when his feeble hand 
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law 
Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled 
Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn 
Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ; 
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, 
The child of grace and genius. Heartless things 
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms 
And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth 
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness. 
In vesper low or joyous orison, 
Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou art fled — 
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes 
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee 
Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips 
So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes 
That image sleep in death, upon that form 
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear 
Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when tl^ose hues 
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments. 
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone 
In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 
Let not high verse, mourning the memory 
Of that which is no more, or painting's woe, 
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, 
And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain 
To weep a loss that turns their light to shade. 
It is a woe too " deep for tears," when all 
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, 
Whose light adorn'd the world around it, leaves 
Those who remain behind, nor sobs nor groans. 
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
But pale despair and cold tranquillity. 
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things. 
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were 

395 



148 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A MODERN ECLOGUE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The story of Rosalind and Helen, is, undoubtedly, 
not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is 
in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation ; 
and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the 
imagination, it awaken a certain ideal melancholy 
favorable to the reception of more important im- 
pressions, it will produce in the reader all that the 
writer experienced in the composition. I resigned 
myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings 
which moulded the conception of the story ; and this 
impulse determined the pauses of a measure, which 
only pretends to be regular inasmuch as it corresponds 
with, and expresses, the irregularity of the imagina- 
tions which inspired it. 
Naples, Dec. 20, 1818. 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



SCENE.— TAe Shore of the Lake of Coma. 
Rosalind, Helen, and her Child. 

HELEN. 

Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 

'Tis long since thou and I have met. 

And yet methinks it were unkind 

Those moments to forget 

Come, sit by me. I see thee stand 

By this lone lake, in this far land. 

Thy loose hair in the light wind flying. 

Thy sweet voice to each tone of even 

United, and thine eyes replying 

To the hues of yon fair heaven. 

Come, gentle friend ! wilt sit by me ? 

And be as thou wert wont to be 

Ere we were disunited ? 

None doth behold us now : the power 

That led us forth at this lone hour 

Will be but ill requited 

If thou depart in scorn : oh ! come. 

And talk of our abandon'd home. 

Remember, this is Italy, 

And we are exiles. Talk with me 

Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, 

Barren and dark although they be. 

Were dearer than these chestnut woods ; 

Those heathy paths, that inland stream. 

And the blue mountains, shapes which seem 

Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream : 

Which that we have abandon'd now. 

Weighs on the heart like that remorse 

Whiqh alter'd friendship leaves. I seek 

No more our youthful intercourse. 

That cannot be ! Rosalind, speak, 



Speak to me. Leave me not. — When mom did 

come. 
When evening fell upon our common home, 
When for one hour we parted, — do not frown ; 
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken 
But turn to me. Oh ! by this cherish'd token, 
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown. 
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me, 
And not my scorned self who pray'd to thee. 

ROSALIND. 

Is it a dream, or do I see 

And hear frail Helen ? I would flee 

Thy tainting touch ; but former years 

Arise, and bring forbidden tears ; 

And my o'erburlhen'd memory 

Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. 

I share thy crime. I cannot choose 

But weep for thee : mine own strange grief 

But seldom stoops to such relief; 

Nor ever did I love thee less. 

Though mourning o'er thy wickedness 

Even with a sister's woe. I knew 

What to the evil world is due. 

And therefore sternly did refuse 

To link me with the infamy 

Of one so lost as Helen. Now 

Bewilder'd by my dire despair. 

Wondering I blush, and weep that thou 

Shouldst love me still, thou only ! — There, 

Let us sit on that gray stone. 

Till our mournful talk be done. 

HELEN. 

Alas ! not there ; I cannot bear 

The murmur of this lake to hear. 

A sound from thee, Rosalind dear. 

Which never yet I heard elsewhere 

But in our native land, recurs, 

Even here where now we meet. It stirs 

Too much of suffocating sorrow ! 

In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood 

Is a stone seat, a soUtude 

Less like our own. The ghost of peace 

Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, 

If thy kind feelings should not cease. 

We may sit here. 

ROSALIND. 

'Hiou lead, my sweet, 
And I will follow. 

HENRY. 

'Tis Fenici's seat 
Where you are going ? This is not the way, 
Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow 
Close to the little river. 

HELEN. 

Yes ; I know : 
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ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



149 



I was bewilder'd. Kiss me, and be gay, 
Dear boy, why do you sob ? 

HENRY. 

I do not know : 
But it might break any one's heart to see 
You and the lady cry so bitterly. 



It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, 
Henry, and play with Lilla till they come. 
We only cried with joy to see each other ,• 
We are quite merry now — Good night. 

The boy 
Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, 
And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy 
Which lighten'd o'er her face, laugh'd with the glee 
Of light and unsuspecting infancy. 
And whisper'd in her ear, " Bring home with you 
That sweet strange lady-friend." Then ofFhe flew. 
But stopp'd, and beckon'd with a meaning smile. 
Where the road turn'd. Pale Rosalind the while. 
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. 



In silence then they took the way 
Beneath the forest's solitude. 
It was a vast and antique wood, 
Through which they took their way ; 
And the gray shades of evening 
O'er that green wilderness did fling 
Still deeper solitude. 
Pursuing still the path that wound 
The vast and knotted trees around 
Through which slow shades were wandering, 
To a deep lawny dell they came, 
To a stone seat beside a spring. 
O'er which the column'd wood did frame 
A roofless temple, like the fane 
Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, 
Man's early race once knelt beneath 
The overhanging deity. 
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky. 
Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, 
I The pale snake, that with eager breath 
Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake, 
Is beaming with many a mingled hue. 
Shed from yon dome's eternal blue, 
I When he floats on that dark and lucid flood 
{ In the light of his own loveliness ; 
And the birds that in the fountain dip 
Their plumes, with fearless fellowship 
Above and round him wheel and hover. 
The fitful wind is heard to stir 
One solitary leaf on high ; 
The chirping of the grasshopper 
Fills every pause. There is emotion 
In all that dwells at noontide here : 
Then, through the intricate wild wood, 
A maze of life and light and motion 
Is woven. But there is stillness now 5 
Gloom, and the trance of Nature now : 
The snake is in his cave asleep ; 
The birds are on the branches dreaming : 
Only the shadows creep ; 
Only the glow-worm is gleaming ; 



Only the owls and the nightingales 
Wake in this dell when daylight fails. 
And gray shades gather in the woods : 
And the owls have all fled far away 
In a merrifer glen to hoot and play. 
For the moon is veil'd and sleeping now. 
The accustom'd nightingale still broods 
On her accustom'd bough. 
But she is mute ; for her false mate 
Has fled and left her desolate. 



This silent spot tradition old 

Had peopled with the spectral dead. 

For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold 

And stiffj as with tremulous lips he told 

That a hellish shape at midnight led 

The ghost of a youth with hoary hair. 

And sate on the seat beside him there, 

Till a naked child came wandering by. 

When the fiend would change to a lady fair ! 

A fearful tale ! The truth was worse : 

For here a sister and a brother 

Had solemnized a monstrous curse. 

Meeting in this fair solitude : 

For beneath yon very sky, 

Had they resign'd to one another 

Body and soul. The multitude. 

Tracking them to the secret wood. 

Tore limb from limb their innocent child, 

And stabb'd and trampled on its mother ; 

But the youth, for God's most holy grace, 

A priest saved to burn in the market-place. 



Duly at evening Helen came 

To this lone silent spot. 

From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow 

So much sympathy to borrow 

As soothed her own dark lot. 

Duly each evening from her home, 

With her fair child would Helen come 

To sit upon that antique seat, 

While the hues of day were pale ; 

And the bright boy beside her feet 

Now lay, lifting at intervals 

His broad blue eyes on her ; 

Now, where some sudden impulse calls 

Following. He was a gentle boy 

And in all gentle sports took joy ; 

Oft in a dry leaf for a boat. 

With a small feather for a sail. 

His fancy on that spring would float, 

If some invisible breeze might stir 

Its marble calm : and Helen smiled 

Through tears of awe on the gay child. 

To think that a boy as fair as he. 

In years which never more may be. 

By that same fount, in that same wood, 

The like sweet fancies had pursued ; 

And that a mother, lost like her, 

Had mournfully sate watching him. 

Then all the scene was wont to swim 

Through the mist of a burning tear. 



For many months had Helen known 
This scene ; and now she thither tum'd 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Her footsteps, not alone. 
The friend whose falsehood she had moum'd, 
Sate with her on that seat of stone. 
Silent they sate ; for evening, 
And the power its glimpses bring 
Had, "with one awful shadow, quell'd 
The passion of their grief They sate 
With linked hands, for unrepell'd 
Had Helen taken Plosalind's. 
Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds 
The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair, 
Which is twined in the sultry summer air 
Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre, 
Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet, 
And the sound of her heart that ever beat. 
As with sighs and words she breathed on her, 
Unbind the knots of her friend's despair. 
Till her thoughts were free to float and flow ; 
And from her laboring bosom now. 
Like the bursting of a prison'd flame. 
The voice of a long-pent sorrow came. 



^I saw the dark earth fall upon 
The cofl^n ; and I saw the stone 
Laid over him whom this cold breast 
Had pillow'd to his nightly rest ! 
Thou knowest not, thou canst not know 
My agony. \ Oh ! I could not weep : 
The sources whence such blessings flow 
Were not to be approach'd by me ! 
But I could smile, and I could sleep, 
Though with a self-accusing heart. 
In morning's light, in evening's gloom, 
I watch'd, — and would not thence depart,— 
My husband's unlamented tomb. 
My children knew their sire was gone, 
But .when I told them, " he is dead," 
They laugh'd aloud in frantic glee. 
They clapp'd their hands and leap'd about. 
Answering each other's ecstasy 
With many a prank and merry shout. 
But I sate silent and alone, 
Wrapp'd in the mock of mourning weed. 



They laugh'd, for he was dead ; but I 
Sate with a hard and tearless eye. 
And with a heart which would deny 
The secret joy it could not quell. 
Low muttering o'er his lothed name ; 
Till from that self-contention came 
Remorse where sin was none ; a hell 
Which in pure spirits should not dwell. 



I'll tell the truth. He was a man 

Hard, selfish, loving only gold, 

Yet full of guile : his pale eyes ran 

With tears, which each some falsehood told, 

And oft his smooth and bridled tongue 

Would give the he to his flushing cheek : 

He was a coward to the strong ; 

He was a tyrant to the weak. 

On whom his vengeance he would wreak : 

For scorn, whose arrows search the heart. 

From many a stranger's eye would dart. 



And on his memory cling, and follow 

His soul to its home so cold and holloT»' 

He was a tyrant to the weak. 

And we were such, alas the day ! 

Oft, when my little ones at play. 

Were in youth's natural lightness gay, 

Or if they listen'd to some tale 

Of travellers, or of fairy-land, — 

When the light from the wood-fire's dying brand 

Flash'd on their faces, — if they heard 

Or thought they heard upon the stair 

His footstep, the suspended word 

Died on my lips : we all grew pale ; 

The babe at my bosom was hush'd with fear, 

If it thought it heard its father near ; 

And my two wild boys would near my knee 

Cling, cow'd and cowering fearfully. 



I '11 tell the truth : I loved another. 

His name in my ear was ever ringing. 

His form to my brain was ever clinging ; 

Yet if some stranger breathed that name. 

My lips turn'd white, and my heart beat fast : 

My nights were once haunted by dreams of flame. 

My days were dim in the shadow cast, 

By the memory of the same ! 

Day and night, day and night, ' 

He was my breath and life and light. 

For three short years, which soon were past 

On the fourth, my gentle mother 

Led me to the shrine, to be 

His sworn bride eternally. 

And now we stood on the altar-stair. 

When my father came from a distant land. 

And with a loud and fearful cry, 

Rush'd between us suddenly. 

I saw the stream of his thin gray hair, 

I saw his lean and lifted hand, 

And heard his words, — and live ! O God ! 

Wherefore do I live ?— " Hold, hold !" 

He cried, — " I tell thee 'tis her brother! 

Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod 

Of yon church-yard rests in her shroud so cold 

I am now weak, and pale, and old : 

We were once dear to one another, 

I and that corpse ! Thou art our child ! " 

Then with a laugh both long and wild 

The youth upon the pavement fell : 

They found him dead ! All look'd on me. 

The spasms of my despair to see ; 

But I was calm. I went away ; 

I was clammy-cold hke clay ! 

I did not weep — I did not speak ; 

But day by day, week after week, 

I walk'd about hke a corpse alive ! 

Alas ! sweet friend, you must believe 

This heart is stone — it did not break. 



My father lived a little while. 
But all might see that he was dying. 
He smiled with such a woful smile ! 
When he was in the church-yard lying 
Among the worms, he grew quite po-Dr, 
So that no one would give us bread. 
My mother look'd at me, and said 
398 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



151 



Faint words of cheer, which only meant 

That she could die and be content ; 

So I went forth from the same church-door 

To another husband's bed. 

And this was he who died at last, 

When weeks and months and years had past, 

Through which I firmly did fulfil 

My duties, a devoted wife. 

With the stern step of vanquish'd will, 

Walking beneath the night of life. 

Whose hours extinguish'd, like slow rain 

Falling for ever, pain by pain. 

The very hope of death's dear rest ; 

Which, since the heart within my breast 

Of natural life was dispossest. 

Its strange sustainer there had been. 



When flowers were dead, and grass was green 

Upon my mother's grave, — that mother 

Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make 

My wan eyes glitter for her sake, 

Was my vow'd task, the single care 

Which once gave life to my despair, — 

When she was a thing that did not stir, 

And the crawling worms were cradling her 

To a sleep more deep and so more sweet 

Than a baby's rock'd on its nurse's knee, 

I lived ; a living pulse then beat 

Beneath my heart that awaken'd me. 

What was this pulse so warm and free ? 

A las ! I knew it could not be 

My own dull blood: 'twas like a thought 

Of liquid love, that spread and wrought 

Under my bosom and in my brain, 

And crept with the blood through every vein ; 

And hour by hour, day after day. 

The wonder could not charm away. 

But laid in sleep, my wakeful pain. 

Until I knew it was a child. 

And then I wept. For long, long years 

These frozen eyes had shed no tears : 

But now — 'twas the season fair and mild 

When April has wept itself to May : 

I sate through the sweet sunny day 

By my window bower'd round with leaves, 

And down my cheeks the quick tears ran 

Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves. 

When warm spring showers are passing o'er : 

O Helen, none can ever tell 

The joy it was to weep once more ! 



I wept to think how hard it were 

To kill my babe, and take from it 

The sense of light, and the warm air, 

And my own fond and tender care. 

And love and smiles ; ere I knew yet 

That these for it might, as for me. 

Be the masks of a grinning mockery. 

And haply, I would dream, 'twere sweet 

To feed it from my faded breast. 

Or mark my own heart's restless beat 

Rock it to its untroubled rest. 

And watch the growing soul beneath 

Dawn in faint smiles ; and hear its breath, 

Half interrupted by calm sighs, 



And search the depth of its fair eyes 

For long departed memories ! 

And so I lived till that sweet load 

Was lighten'd. Darkly forward flow'd - 

The stream of years, and on it bore 

Two shapes of gladness to my sight ; 

Two other babes, delightful more 

In my lost soul's abandon'd night. 

Than their own country ships may be 

Sailing towards wreck'd mariners. 

Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea. 

For each, as it came, brought soothing tears, 

And a loosening warmth, as each one lay 

Sucking the sullen milk away 

About my frozen heart, did play. 

And wean'd it, oh how painfully ! — 

As they themselves were wean'd each one 

From that sweet food, — even from the thirst 

Of death, and nothingness, and rest, 

Strange inmate of a living breast ! 

Which all that I had undergone 

Of grief and shame, since she, who first 

The gates of that dark refuge closed, 

Came to my sight, and almost burst 

The seal of that Lethean spring ; 

But these fair shadows interposed : 

For all delights are shadows now! 

And from my brain to my dull brow 

The heavy tears gather and flow : 

I cannot speak — Oh let me weep ! 



The tears which fell from her wan eyes 
Glimmer'd among the moonlight dew ; 
Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs 
Their echoes in the darkness threw. 
When she grew calm, she thus did keep 
The tenor of her tale : — 



He died, 
I know not how. He was not old, 
If age be number'd by its years ; 
But he was bow'd and bent with fears, 
Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold, 
Which, like fierce fever, left him weak ; 
And his strait lip and bloated cheek 
Were warp'd in spasms by hollow sneers ; 
And selfish cares with barren plow. 
Not age, had lined his narrow brow. 
And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed 
Upon the withering life within. 
Like vipers on some poisonous weed. 
Whether his ill were death or sin 
None knew, until he died indeed. 
And then men own'd they were the same. 

Seven days within my chamber lay 
That corse, and my babes made holiday : 
At last, I told them what is death : 
The eldest, with a kind of shame. 
Came to my knees with silent breath, 
And sate awe-stricken at my feet ^ 
And soon the others left their play. 
And sate there too. It is unmeet 
To shed on the brief flower of youth 
The withering knowledge of the grave , 
From me remorse then wrung that truth 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I could not bear the joy which gave 
Too just a response to mine own. 
In vain. I dared not feign a groan ; 
And in their artless looks I saw, 
Between the mists, of fear and awe. 
That my own thought was theirs ; and they 
Express'd it not in words, but said, 
Each in its heart, how every day 
Will pass in happy work and play, 
Now he is dead and gone away. 



After the funeral all our kin 

Assembled, and the will was read. 

My friend, I tell thee, even the dead 

Have strength, their putrid shrouds within, 

To blast and torture. Those who live 

Still fear the living, but a corse 

Is merciless, and power doth give 

To such pale tyrants half the spoil 

He rends from those who groan and toil. 

Because they blush not with remorse 

Among their crawling worms. Behold, 

I have no child ! my tale grows old 

With grief, and staggers : let it reach 

The limits of my feeble speech. 

And languidly at length recline 

On the brink of its own grave and mine. 



Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty 

Among the fallen on evil days : 

'Tis Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, 

And houseless Want in frozen ways 

Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, 

And, worse than all, that inward stain 

Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers 

Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears 

First like hot gall, then dry for ever . 

And well thou knowest a mother never 

Could doom her children to this ill, 

And well he knew the same. The will 

Imported, that if e'er again 

I sought my children to behold, 

Or in my birth-place did remain 

Beyond three days, whose hours were told, 

They should inherit naught : and he. 

To whom next came their patrimony, 

A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold. 

Aye watch'd me, as the will was read. 

With eyes askance, which sought to see 

The secrets of my agony ; 

And with close lips and anxious brow 

Stood canvassing still to and fro 

The chance of my resolve, and all 

The dead man's caution just did call; 

For in that killing lie 'twas said — 

" She is adulterous, and doth hold 

In secret that the Christian creed 

Is false, and therefore is much need 

That I should have a care to save 

My children from eternal fire." 

Friend, he was shelter'd by the grave, 

And therefore dared to be a liar ! 

In truth, the Indian on the pyre 

Of her dead husband, half consumed, 

As well might there be false, as I 

To those abhorr'd embraces doom'd. 



Far worse than fire's brief agony. 

As to the Christian creed, if true 

Or false, I never question'd it : 

I took it as the vulgar do : 

Nor my vext soul had leisure yet 

To doubt the things men say, or deem 

That they are other than they seem. 



All present who those crimes did hear. 
In feign'd or actual scorn and fear. 
Men, women, children, slunk away, 
Whispering with self-contented pride. 
Which half suspects its own base lie. 
I spoke to none, nor did abide. 
But silently I went my way. 
Nor noticed I where joyously 
Sate my two younger babes at play, 
In the court-yard through which I past 
But went with footsteps firm and fast 
Till I came to the brink of the ocean 
And there, a woman with gray hairs, 
Who had my mother's servant been. 
Kneeling, with many tears and prayers, 
Made me accept a purse of gold. 
Half of the earnings she had kept 
To refuge her when weak and old. 



With woe, which never sleeps or slept, 

I wander now. 'Tis a vain thought — 

But on yon alp, whose snowy head 

'Mid the azure air is islanded 

(We see it o'er the flood of cloud. 

Which sunrise from its eastern caves 

Drives, wrinkling into golden waves. 

Hung with its precipices proud, 

From that gray stone where first we met), 

There, now who knows the dead feel naught ? 

Should be my grave ; for he who yet 

Is my soul's soul, once said ; " 'T were sweet 

'Mid stars and lightnings to abide. 

And winds and lulling snows, that beat 

With their soft flakes the mountain wide. 

When weary meteor lamps repose. 

And languid storms their pinions close : 

And all things strong and bright and pure. 

And ever-during, aye endure : 

Who knows, if one were buried there, 

But these things might our spirits make. 

Amid the all-surrounding air, 

Their own eternity partake ?" 

Then 'twas a wild and playful saying 

At which I laugh'd or seera'd to laugh : 

They were his words : now heed my praying 

And let them be my epitaph. 

Thy memory for a term may be 

My monument. Wilt remember me ? 

I know thou wilt, and canst forgive 

Whilst in this erring world to live 

My soul disdain'd not, that I thought 

Its lying forms were worthy aught. 

And much less thee. 



O speak not so. 
But come to me and pour thy woe 
Into this heart, full though it be, 

400 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



153 



Aye overflowing with its own : 

I thought that grief had sever'd me 

From all beside who weep and groan ; 

Its likeness upon earth to be, 

Its express image ; but thou art 

More wretched. Sweet ! we will not part 

Henceforth, if death be not division ; 

If so, the dead feel no contrition. 

But wilt thou hear, since last we parted 

All that has left me broken-hearted ? 

ROSALIND. 

Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn 
Of their thin beams by that delusive mom 
Which sinks again in darkness, like the light 
Of early love, soon lost in total night. 



Alas ! Italian winds are mild, 

But my bosom is cold — wintry cold — 

When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves. 

Soft music, my poor brain is wild. 

And I am weak like a nursling child, 

Though my soul wdth grief is gray and old. 



Weep not at thine own words, tho' they must make 
Me weep. What is thy tale ? 

HELEN. 

I fear 'twill shake 
Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well 
Rememberest when we met no more, 
And, though I dwelt with Lionel, 
That friendless caution pierced me sore 
With grief; a wound my spirit bore 
Indignantly, but when he died 
With him lay dead both hope and pride. 

Alas! all hope is buried now. 
But then men dream'd the aged earth 
Was laboring in that mighty birth, 
Which many a poet and a sage 
Has aye foreseen — the happy age 
When truth and love shall dwell below 
Among the works and ways of men ; 
Which on this world not power but will 
Even now is wanting to fulfil. 

Among mankind what thence befell 
Of strife, how vain, is known too well ; 
When liberty's dear paean fell 
'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel, 
Though of great wealth and lineage high. 
Yet through those dungeon walls there came 
Thy thrilling hght, O Liberty! 
And as the meteor's midnight flame 
Startles the dreamer, sunlike truth 
Flash'd on his visionary youth. 
And fill'd him, not with love, but faith, 
And hope, and courage mute in death ; 
For love and life in him were twins, 
Born at one birth : in every other 
First life then love its course begins. 
Though they be children of one mother ; 
And so through this dark world they fleet 
Divided, till in death they meet : 
3 A 



But he loved all things ever. Then 

He pass'd amid the strife of men. 

And stood at the throne of armed power 

Pleading for a world of woe : 

Secure as one on a rock-built tower 

O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro, 

'Mid the passions wild of human-kind 

He stood, like a spirit calming them ; 

For, it was said, his words could bind 

Like music the lull'd crowd, and stem 

That torrent of unquiet dream 

Which mortals truth and reason deem, 

But is revenge and fear, and pride. 

Joyous he was ; and hope and peace 

On all who heard him did abide. 

Raining like dew from his sweet talk, 

As where the evening star may walk 

Along the brink of the gloomy seas, 

Liquid mists of splendor quiver. 



His very gestures touch'd to tears 

The unpersuaded tyrant, never 

So moved "before : his presence stung 

The torturers with their victim's pain, 

And none knew how ; and through their ears, 

The subtle witchcraft of his tongue 

Unlock'd the hearts of those who keep 

Gold, the world's bond of slavery. 

Men wonder'd, aftd some sneer'd to see 

One sow what he could never reap : 

For he is rich, they said, and young. 

And might drink from the depths of luxury. 

If he seeks fame, fame never crown'd 

The champion of a trampled creed : 

If he seeks power, power is enthroned 

'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed 

Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil 

Those who would sit near power must toil; 

And such, there sitting, all may see. 

What seeks he ? All that others seek 

He casts away, like a vile weed 

Which the sea casts unreturningly. 

That poor and hungry men should break 

The laws which wreak them toil and scorn, 

We understand ; but Lionel 

We know is rich and nobly born. 



So wonder'd they ; yet all men loved 
Young Lionel, though few approved ; 
All but the priests, whose hatred fell 
Like the unseen blight of a smiling day. 
The withering honey-dew, which clings 
Under the bright green buds of May, 
Whilst they unfold their emerald wings : 
For he made verses wild and queer 
On the strange creeds priests hold so dear. 
Because they bring them land and gold. 
Of devils and saints and aM such gear. 
He made tales which whoso heard or read 
Would laugh till he were almost dead. 
So this grew a proverb : " Do n't get old 
Till Lionel's ' banquet in hell' you hear. 
And then you will laugh yourself young again." 
So the priests hated him, and he 
Repaid their hate with cheerful glee. 
401 



154 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ah, smiles and joyance quickly died, 

For public hope grew pale and dim 

In an alter'd time and tide, 

And in its wasting wither'd him. 

As a summer flower that blows too soon 

Droops in the smile of the waning moon, 

When it scatters through an April night 

The frozen dews of wrinkling blight. 

None now hoped more. Gray Power was 

Safely on her ancestral throne ; 

And Faith, the Python, undefeated, 

Even to its blood-stain'd steps dragg'd on 

Her foul and wounded train, and men 

Were trampled and deceived again. 

And words and shows again could bind 

The wailing tribes of human-kind 

In scorn and famine. Fire and blood 

Raged round the raging multitude. 

To fields remote by tyrants sent 

To be the scorned instrument 

With which they drag from mines of gore 

The chains their slaves yet ever wore ; 

And in the streets men met each other, 

And by old altars and in halls. 

And smiled again at festivals. 

But each man found in his heart's brother 

Cold cheer; for all, though half deceived, 

The outworn creeds again believed. 

And the same round anew began. 

Which the weary world yet ever ran. 



Many then wept, not tears, but gall 
Within their hearts, like drops which fall 
Wasting the fountain-stone away. 
And in that dark and evil day 
Did all desires and thoughts, that claim 
Men's care — ambition, friendship, fame. 
Love, hope, though hope was now despair- 
Indue the colors of this change. 
As from the all-surrounding air 
The earth takes hues obscure and strange, 
When storm and earthquake linger there. 



And so, my friend, it then befell 
To many, most to Lionel, 
Whose hope was like the life of youth 
Within him, and when dead, became 
A spirit of unresting flame. 
Which goaded him in his distress 
Over the world's vast wilderness. 
Three years he left his native land. 
And on the fourth, when he return'd. 
None knew him : he was stricken deep 
With some disease of mind, and tum'd 
Into aught unlike Lionel. 
On him, on whom, did he pause in sleep, 
Serenest smiles were wont to keep. 
And, did he wake, a winged band 
Of bright persuasions, which had fed 
On his sweet lips and liquid eyes. 
Kept their swift pinions half outspread, 
To do on men his least command ; 
On him, whom once 'twas paradise 
Even to behold, now misery lay: 
In his own heart 'twas merciless, 



To all things else none may express 
Its innocence and tenderness. 

'Twas said that he had refuge sought 

In love from his unquiet thought 

In distant lands, and been deceived 

By some strange show ; for there were found, 

Blotted with tears as those relieved 

By their own words are wont to do, 

These mournful verses on the ground, 

By all who read them blotted too. 

" How am I changed ! my hopes were once like fire 
I loved, and I beheved that life was love. 
How am I lost ! on wings of swift desire 
Among Heaven's winds my spirit once did move 
I slept, and silver dreams did aye inspire 
My liquid sleep. I woke, and did approve 
All nature to my heart, and thought to make 
A paradise of earth for one sweet sake. 

" I love, but I believe in love no more : 
I feel desire, but hope not. O, from sleep 
Most vainly must my weary brain implore 
Its long-lost flattery now. I wake to weep, 
And sit through the long day gnawing the core 
Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, keep. 
Since none in what I feel take pain or pleasure 
To my ovm soul its self consuming treasure." 

He dwelt beside me near the sea ; 
And oft in evening did we meet, 
WTien the waves, beneath the starlight, fl^e 
O'er the yellow sands with silver feet. 
And talk'd. Our talk was sad and sweet. 
Till slowly from his mien there pass'd 
The desolation which it spoke ; 
And smiles, — as when the lightning's blast 
Has parch'd some Heaven-delighting oak. 
The next spring shows leaves pale and rare, 
But like flowers dehcate and fair, 
On its rent boughs; — again array'd 
His countenance in tender light : 
His words grew subtle fire, which made 
The air his hearers breathed delight : 
His motions, like the winds, were free. 
Which bend the bright grass gracefully, 
Then fade away in circlets faint: 
And vnnged Hope, on which upborne 
His soul seem'd hovering in his eyes, 
Like some bright spirit newly-born 
Floating amid the sunny skies. 
Sprang forth from his rent heart anew. 
Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien, 
Tempering their loveliness too keen. 
Past woe its shadow backward threw. 
Till like an exhalation, spread 
From flowers half drunk with evening dew. 
They did become infectious : sweet 
And subtle mists of sense and thought; 
Which wrapt us soon, when we might meet, 
Almost from our own looks and aught 
The wide world holds. And so, his mind 
Was heal'd, while mine grew sick with fear • 
For ever now his health declined. 
Like some frail bark which cannot bear 
The impulse of an alter'd wind, 

402 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



155 



Though prosperous ; and my heart grew full 

'Mid its new joy of a new care : 

For his cheek became, not pale, but fair, 

As rose-o'ershadow'd Hlies are ; 

And soon his deep and sunny hair, 

In this alone less beautiful, 

Like grass in tombs grew wild and rare. 

The blood in his translucent veins 

Beat, not like animal hfe, but love 

Seem'd now its sullen springs to move, 

When life had fail'd, and all its pains ; 

And sudden sleep would seize him oft 

Like death, so calm, but that a tear. 

His pointed eye-lashes between, 

Would gather in the light serene 

Of smiles, whose lustre bright and soft 

Beneath lay undulating there. 

His breath was like inconstant flame. 

As eagerly it went and came ; 

And I hung o'er him in his sleep, 

Till, like an image in the lake 

Which rains disturb, my tears would break 

The shadow of that slumper deep ; 

Then he would bid me not to weep. 

And say with flattery false, yet sweet, 

That death and he could never meet. 

If I would never part with him. 

And so we loved, and did unite 

All that in us was yet divided : 

For when he said, that many a rite, 

By men to bind but once provided, 

Could not be shared by him and me. 

Or they would kill him in their glee, 

I shudder'd, and then laughing said, 

" We will have rites our faith to bind, 

But our church shall be the starry night, 

Our altar the grassy earth outspread, 

And our priest the muttering wind." 



'Twas sunset as I spoke : one star 

Had scarce burst forth, when from afar 

The ministers of misrule sent. 

Seized upon Lionel, and bore 

His chain'd limbs to a dreary tower, 

In the midst of a city vast and wide. 

For he, they said, from his mind had bent 

Against their gods keen blasphemy. 

For which, though his soul must roasted be 

In hell's red lakes immortally, 

Yet even on earth must he abide 

The vengeance of their slaves — a trial, 

I think, men call it. What avail 

Are prayers and tears, which chase denial 

From the fierce savage, nursed in hate ? 

What the knit soul that pleading and pale 

Makes wan the quivering cheek, which late 

It painted with its own delight ? 

We were divided. As I could, 

I still'd the tingling of my blood, 

And follow'd him in their despite, 

As a widow follows, pale and wild, 

ITie murderers and corse of her only child ; 

And when we came to the prison door. 

And I pray'd to share his dungeon floor 

With prayers that rarely have been spurn'd, 

And when men drove me forth, and I 



Stared with blank frenzy on the sky, 

A farewell look of love he turn'd, 

Half calming me ; then gazed awhile. 

As if through that black and massy pile, 

And through the crowd around him there. 

And through the dense and murky air. 

And the throng'd streets, he did espy 

What poets know and prophesy ; 

And said, with voice that made them shiver 

And clung like music in my brain, 

And which the mute walls spoke again 

Prolonging it with deepen'd strain — 

" Fear not the tyrants shall rule for ever. 

Or the priests of the bloody faith ; 

They stand on the brink of that mighty river. 

Whose waves they have tainted with death : 

It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells, 

Around them it foams, and rages, and swells. 

And their swords and their sceptres I floating see. 

Like wrecks in the surge of eternity." 

I dwelt beside the prison-gate. 

And the strange crowd that out and in 

Pass'd, some, no doubt, wdth mine own fate. 

Might have fretted me with its ceaseless din, 

But the fever of care was louder within. 

Soon, but loo late, in penitence 

Or fear, his foes released him thence : 

I saw his thin and languid form, 

As leaning on the jailer's arm, 

Whose harden'd eyes grew moist the while, 

To meet his mute and faded smile, 

And hear his words of kind farewell. 

He totter'd forth from his damp cell. 

Many had never wept before, 

From whom fast tears then gush'd and fell : 

Many will relent no more, 

Who sobb'd like infants then ; ay, all 

Who throng'd the prison's stony hall, 

The rulers or the slaves of law, 

Felt with a new surprise and awe 

That they were human, till strong shame 

Made them again become the same. 

The prison blood-hounds, huge and grim. 

From human looks the infection caught. 

And fondly crouch'd and fawn'd on him ; 

And men have heard the prisoners say. 

Who in their rotting dungeons lay, 

That from that hour, throughout one day. 

The fierce despair and hate which kept 

Their trampled bosoms almost slept : 

When, like twin vultures, they hung feeding 

On each heart's wound, wide torn and bleeding,^ 

Because their jailers' rule, they thought. 

Grew merciful, like a parent's sway. 

I know not how, but we were free : 
And Lionel sate alone with me, 
As the carriage drove through the streets apace r 
And we look'd upon each other's face ; 
And the blood in our fingers intertwined 
Ran like the thoughts of a single mind, 
As the swift emotions went and came 
Through the veins of each united frame. 
So through the long lone streets we past 
Of the million-peopled city vast ; 
403 



156 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Which is that desert, where each one 

Seeks his mate yet is alone, 

Beloved and sought and moum'd of none ; 

Until the clear blue sky was seen. 

And the grassy meadows bright and green, 

And then I sunk in his embrace, 

Inclosing there a mighty space 

Of love : and so we travell'd on 

By woods, and fields of yellow flowers, 

And towns, and villages, and towers. 

Day after day of happy hours. 

It was the azure time of June, 

When the skies are deep in the stainless noon. 

And the warm and fitful breezes shake 

The fresh green leaves of the hedge-row brier. 

And there were odors then to make 

The very breath we did respire 

A liquid element, whereon 

Our spirits, like delighted things 

That walk the air on subtle wings, 

Floated and mingled far away, 

'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. 

And when the evening star came forth 

Above the curve of the new-bent moon, 

And light and sound ebb'd from the earth, 

Like the tide of the full and weary sea 

To the depths of its own tranquillity. 

Our natures to its own repose 

Did the earth's breathless sleep attune : 

Like flowers, which on each other close 

Their languid leaves when daylight's gone. 

We lay, till new emotions came. 

Which seem'd to make each mortal frame 

One soul of interwoven flame, 

A life in life, a second birth 

In worlds diviner far than earth, 

Which, like two strains of harmony 

That mingle in the silent sky. 

Then slowly disunite, past by 

And left the tenderness of tears, 

A soft oblivion of all fears, 

A sweet sleep : so we travell'd on 

Till we came to the home of Lionel, 

Among the mountains wild and lone. 

Beside the hoary western sea. 

Which near the verge of the echoing shore 

The massy forest shadow'd o'er. 

The ancient steward, with hair all hoar. 

As we alighted, wept to see 

His master changed so fearfully ; 

And the old man's sobs did waken me 

From my dream of unremaining gladness ; 

The truth flash'd o'er me like quick madness 

When I look'd, and saw that there was death 

On Lionel : yet day by day 

He lived, till fear grew hope and faith. 

And in my soul I dared to say, 

Nothing so bright can pass away : 

Death is dark, and foul, and dull, 

But he is — O how beautiful ! 

Yet day by day he grew more weak. 

And his sweet voice, when he might speak. 

Which ne'er was loud, became more low ; 

And the light which flash'd through his waxen 

cheek 
Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow 



From sunset o'er the Alpine snow: 
And death seem'd not like death in him. 
For the spirit of life o'er every limb 
Linger'd, a mist of sense and thought. 
When the summer wind faint odors brought 
From mountain flowers, even as it pass'd 
His cheek would change, as the noonday sea 
Which the dying breeze swept fitfully. 
If but a cloud the sky o'ercast, 
You might see his color come and go, 
And the softest strain of music made 
Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade 



Amid the dew of his tender 



eyes; 



And the breath, with intermitting flow, 

Made his pale lips quiver and part. 

You might hear the beatings of his heart. 

Quick, but not strong ; and with my tresses 

When ofl; he playfully would bind 

In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses 

His neck, and win me so to mingle 

In the sweet depth of woven caresses. 

And our faint limbs were intertwined, 

Alas ! the unquiet life did tingle 

From mine own heart through every vein. 

Like a captive in dreams of liberty. 

Who beats the walls of his stony cell. 

But his, it seem'd already free, 

Like the shadow of fire surrounding me ! 

On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell 

That spirit as it pass'd, till soon. 

As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon, 

Beneath its light invisible, 

Is seen when it folds its gray wings again 

To alight on midnight's dusky plain, 

I lived and saw, and the gathering soul 

Pass'd from beneath that strong control. 

And I fell on a life which was sick with fear 

Of all the woe that now I bear. 



Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, 
On a green and sea-girt promontory. 
Not far from where we dwelt, there stood 
In record of a sweet sad story. 
An altar and a temple bright 
Circled by steps, and o'er the gate 
Was sculptured, " To Fidelity ;" 
And in the shrine an image sate. 
All veil'd : but there was seen the light 
Of smiles, which faintly could express 
A mingled pain and tenderness 
Through that ethereal drapery. 
The left hand held the head, the right — 
Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, 
You might see the nerves quivering within— 
Was forcing the point of a barbed dart 
Into its side-convulsing heart. 
An unskill'd hand, yet one inform'd 
With genius, had the marble warm'd 
With that pathetic life. This tale 
It told : A dog had from the sea. 
When the tide was raging fearfully, 
Dragg'd Lionel's mother, weak and pale, 
Then died beside her on the sand. 
And she that temple thence had plann'd : 
But it was Lionel's own hand 
Had wrought the image. Each new moon 
404 



ROSALIND AND HELEN. 



157 



That lady did, in this lone fane, 

The rites of a religion sweet, 

Whose god was in her heart and brain : 

The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn 

On the marble floor beneath her feet, 

And she brought crowns of sea-buds white, 

Whose odor is so sweet and faint, 

And weeds, like branching chrysolite. 

Woven in devices fine and quaint, 

And tears from her brown eyes did stain 

The altar : need but look upon 

That dying statue, fair and wan. 

If tears should cease, to weep again : 

And rare Arabian odors came. 

Through the myrtle copses steaming thence 

From the hissing frankincense. 

Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, 

Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome. 

That ivory dome, whose azure night 

With golden stars, like heaven, was bright 

O'er the split cedars' pointed flame: 

And the lady's harp would kindle there 

The melody of an old air. 

Softer than sleep ; the villagers 

Mixt their religion up with hers, 

And as they listen'd round, shed tears. 



One eve he led me to this fane : 
Daylight on its last purple cloud 
Was lingering gray, and soon her strain 
The nightingale began ; now loud. 
Climbing in circles the windless sky, 
Now dying music ; suddenly 
'T is scatter'd in a thousand notes. 
And now to the hush'd ear it floats 
Like field-smells known in infancy, 
Then failing, soothes the air again. 
We sate within that temple lone, 
Pavilion'd round with Parian stone : 
His mother's harp stood near, and oft 
I had awaken'd music soft 
Amid its wires : the nightingale 
Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale : 
" Now drain the cup," said Lionel, 
" Which the poet-bird has crown'd so well 
With the wine of her bright and liquid song !* 
Heardst thou not sweet words among 
That heaven-resounding minstrelsy ! 
Heardst thou not, that those who die 
Awake in a world of ecstasy ? 
That love, when limbs are interwoven, 
And sleep, when the night of life is cloven. 
And thought, to the world's dim boundaries cling- 
ing, 
And music, when one beloved is singing, 
Is death ? Let us drain right joyously 
The cup which the sweet bird fills for me." 
He paused, and to my lips he bent 
His own: like spirit his words went 
Through all my limbs with the speed of fire ; 
And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, 
Fill'd me with the flame divine. 
Which in their orbs was burning far, 
Like the light of an unmeasured star. 
In the sky of midnight dark and deep : 
Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire 
Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken. 



And first, I felt my fingers sweep 

The harp, and a long quivering cry 

Burst from my lips in symphony: 

The dusk and solid air was shaken, 

As swift and swifter the notes came 

From my touch, that wander'd like quick flame, 

And from my bosom, laboring 

With some unutterable thing : 

The awful sound of my own voice made 

My faint lips tremble, in some mood 

Of wordless thought Lionel stood 

So pale, that even beside his cheek 

The snowy column from its shade 

Caught whiteness : yet his countenance 

Raised upward, burn'd with radiance 

Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light. 

Like the moon struggling through the night 

Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break 

With beams that might not be confined. 

I paused, but soon his gestures kindled 

New power, as by the moving wind 

The waves are lifted, and my song 

To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, 

And from the twinkling wires among. 

My languid fingers drew and flung 

Circles of life-dissolving sound. 

Yet faint : in aery rings they bound 

My Lionel, who, as every strain 

Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien 

Sunk with the sound relaxedly ; 

And slowly now he turn'd to me, 

As slowly faded from his face 

That awful joy : with looks serene 

He was soon drawn to my embrace. 

And my wild song then died away 

In murmurs : words, I dare not say 

We mix'd, and on his lips mine fed 

Till they methought felt still and cold : 

" What is it with thee, love ?" I said ; 

No word, no look, no motion ! yes. 

There was a change, but spare to guess, 

Nor let that moment's hope be told. 

I look'd, and knew that he was dead. 

And fell, as the eagle on the plain 

Falls when life deserts her brain. 

And the mortal lightning is veil'd again. 



O that I were now dead ! but such 
Did they not, love, demand too much 
Those dying murmurs ? He forbad. 
O that I once again were mad ! 
And yet, dear Rosalind, not so, 
For I would live to share thy woe. 
Sweet boy : did I forget thee too ? 
Alas, we know not what we do 
When we speak words. 



No memory more 
Is in my mind of that sea-shore. 
Madness came on me, and a troop 
Of misty shapes did seem to sit 
Beside me, on a vessel's poop. 
And the clear north wind was driving it. 
Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strango 

flowers, 
And the stars methought grew imlike ours, 
405 



158 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And the azure sky and the stormless sea 

Made me believe that I had died, 

And waked in a world, which was to me 

Drear hell, though heaven to all beside. 

Then a dead sleep fell on my mind, 

Whilst animal life many long years 

Had rescued from a chasm of tears ; 

And when I woke, I wept to find 

That the same lady, bright and wise. 

With silver locks and quick brown eyes, 

The mother of my Lionel, 

Had tended me in my distress, 

And died some months before. Nor less 

Wonder, but far more peace and joy 

Brought in that hour my lovely boy ; 

For through that trance my soul had well 

The impress of thy being kept ; 

And if I waked, or if I slept. 

No doubt, though memory faithless be, 

Thy image ever dwelt on me ; 

And thus, O Lionel ! like thee 

Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange 

I knew not of so great a change, 

As that which gave him birth, who now 

Is all the solace of my woe. 

That Lionel great wealth had left 
By will to me, and that of all 
The ready lies of law bereft, 
My child and me might well befall. 
But let me think not of the scorn, 
Which from the meanest I have borne. 
When, for my child's beloved sake, 
I mix'd with slaves, to vindicate 
The very laws themselves do make : 
Let me not say scorn is my fate. 
Lest I be proud, suffering the same 
With those who live in deathless fame. 



She ceased. — " Lo, where red morning through the 

woods 
Is burning o'er the dew!" said Rosahnd. 
And with these words they rose, and towards the flood 
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind 
With equal steps and fingers intertwined : 
Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore 
Is shadowed with rocks, and cypresses 
Cleave with their dark-green cones the silent skies, 
And with their shadows the clear depths below. 
And where a little terrace, from its bowers 
Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers. 
Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er 
The liquid marble of the windless lake ; 
And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, 
Under the leaves which their green garments make, 
They come : 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white, 
Like one which tyrants spare on our ovra land 
In some such solitude, its casements bright 
Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun. 
And even wdthin 'twas scarce like Italy. 
And when she saw how all things there were plann'd, 



As in an English home, dim memory 
Disturb'd poor Rosalind : she stood as one 
Whose mind is where his body cannot be, 
Till Helen led her where her child yet slept. 
And said, " Observe, that brow was Lionel's, 
Those lips were his, and so he ever kept 
One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. 
You cannot see his eyes, they are two wells 
Of liquid love ; let us not wake him yet." 
But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept 
A shower of burning tears, which fell upon 
His face, and so his opening lashes shone 
With tears unlike his own, as he did leap 
In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep. 



So Rosalind and Helen lived together 

Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again. 

Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather 

They wander'd in their youth, through sun and rain 

And after many years, for human things 

Change even like the ocean and the wind, 

Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, 

And in their circle thence some visitings 

Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene: 

A lovely child she was, of looks serene; 

And motions which o'er things indiflferent shed 

The grace and gentleness from whence they came. 

And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed 

From the same flowers of thought, until each mind 

Like springs which mingle in one flood became, 

And in their union soon thejr parents saw 

The shadow of the peace denied to them. 

And Rosalind, — for when the living stem 

Is canker'd in its heart, the tree must fall, — 

Died ere her time ; and with deep grief and awe 

The pale survivors foUow'd her remains 

Beyond the region of dissolving rains. 

Up the cold mountain she was wont to call 

Her tomb ; and on Chiavenna's precipice 

They raised a pyramid of lasting ice, 

Whose polish'd sides, ere day had yet begun. 

Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun. 

The last, when it had sunk; and through the night 

The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round 

Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home. 

Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, 

With willing steps climbing that rugged height, 

And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound 

With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite^ 

Fill'd the frore air with unaccustom'd hght: 

Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom 

Of one friend left, adorn'd that frozen tomb. 



Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, 
Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier lea 
Into the peace of his dominion cold : 
She died among her kindred, being old. 
And know, that if love die not in the dead 
As in the living, none of mortal kind 
Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind. 
406 



ADONAIS. 



159 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 



^Aarrip irpiv (lev eXannes ivi ^woTctv f(j)oj" 
Nvv Se ^avbiv Xa'jtiTrets eairepos iv ^Binivois. 

Plato. 



PREFACE. 



^dp\iaKov TjXQty Bfwv, TtoTi (t6v trrona, <pdpp.aKov tiSeg. 
Ilwf rev To2i ^eiXeaai noTiSpajxe, kovk tyXvKdvOr] ; 
Tt's ^1 ^pords TOCTffovTov dvdptpos, ti Ktpdaai roi^ 
"H 6ovvai \a\iovTi to OdpixaKov ; £K(pvyEv tpSdv. 

MoscHus, Epitaph. Bion. 



It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of 
this poem, a criticism upon the claims of its lamented 
object to be classed among the writers of the highest 
genius who have adorned our age. My known re- 
pugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which 
several of his earlier compositions were modelled, 
prove, at least, that I am an impartial judge. I con- 
sider the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing 
that was ever produced by a writer of the same 
years, 

John Keats died at Rome, of a consumption, in his 

twenty-fourth year, on the of 1821 ; 

and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery 
of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid 
which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls 
and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which 
formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery 
is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter 
with violets and daisies. It might make one in love 
with death, to think that one should be buried in 
so sweet a place. 

The genius of the lamented person to whose mem- 
ory I have dedicated these unworthy verses, was not 
less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful ; and 
where canker-worms abound, what wonder, if its 
young flower was blighted in the bud ? The savage 
criticism on his Endymion, which appeared in the 
Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effect 
on his susceptible mind ; the agitation thus origin- 
ated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the 
lungs ; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeed- 
ing acknowledgments from more candid critics, of the 
true greatness of his pOwers, were ineffectual to heal 
the wound thus wantonly inflicted. 

It may be w^ll said that these wretched men know 
not what they do. They scatter their insults and their 
slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned 
shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows, 
or one, like Keats's, composed of more penetrable 
stuff; One of their associates is, to my knowledge, 
a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to 
" Endymion," was it a poem, whatever might be its 
defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who 
had celebrated with various degrees of complacency 



and panegyric, " Paris," and "Woman," and a '• Syri- 
an Tale," and a long list of the illustrious obscure ? 
Are these the men, who in their venal good-nature, 
presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. 
Milman and Lord Byron ? What gnat did they strain 
at here, after having swallowed all those camels ? 
Against what woman taken in adultery, dares the 
foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his oppro- 
brious stone ? Miserable man ! you, 'one of the 
meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest 
specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall 
it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you 
have spoken daggers, but used none. 

The circumstances of the closing scene of poor 
Keats's life were not made known to me until the 
Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to un- 
derstand that the wound which his sensitive spirit 
had received from the criticism of Endymion, was 
exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited bene- 
fits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted 
from the stage of life, no less by those on whom he 
had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on 
whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He 
was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last 
illness, by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest 
promise, who, I have been informed, " almost risked 
his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied 
attendance upon his dying friend." Had I known these 
circumstances before the completion of my poem, I 
should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute 
of applause to the more solid recompense which the 
virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own mo- 
tives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from 
" such stuff" as dreams are made of" His conduct is 
a golden augury of the success of his future career — 
may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend 
animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against 
Oblivion for his name ! 



ADONAIS. 



L 

I WEEP for AnoNAis — ^he is dead ! 
O, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 
And teach them thine own sorrow ; say — with me 
Died Adonais I — till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ! 

407 



160 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



II. 
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid list'ning Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd breath, 
Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the corse be- 
neath, 
He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of death. 

III. 

O, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep. 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 
Descend : — oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our 



IV. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, 
The priest, the slave, and the hberticide. 
Trampled and mock'd with many a lothed rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified, 
Into tke gulf of death ; but his clear sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of 
UghL 

V. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to climb ; 
And happier they their happiness who knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 
In which suns perish'd ; others more sublime. 
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene 
abode. 

VI. 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd. 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew. 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherisTi'd, 
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew ; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveUest and the last. 
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 

vir. 

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 
He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 



VIII. 
He will awake no more, oh, never more ! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 

draw. 

IX. 
O, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, 
The passion-vdnged Ministers of thought. 
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
The love which was its music, wander not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung ; and mourn 

their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet 

pain. 
They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. 



And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head. 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 
" Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some dream has loosen'd from his brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise, 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. 

XI. 
One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Wash'd his light limbs, as if embalming them ; 
Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 

XII. 

Another Splendor on his mouth alit. 

That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the 

breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit. 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and with music : the damp death 
Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips ; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night clips. 
It flash'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its 
eclipse. 

XIII. 
And others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies, 
Splendors, and Glooms, and glimering Incarnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes. 
Came in slow pomp,-— the movmg pomp might 
seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 
408 



ADONAIS. 



161 



XIV. 
All he bad loved, and moulded into thought, 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound. 
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, 
Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd. 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay. 
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. 

XV. 
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay, 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains, 
Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray. 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
Since she can mimic not his hps, more dear 
Than those for whose disdain she pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen 
hear. 

XVI. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw 

down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 
Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown 
For whom should she have waked the sullen year 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear. 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonais : wan they stood and sere 
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth. 
With dew all turn'd to tears ; odor, to sighing ruth. 

XVII. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale 
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain. 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest! 



XVIII. 
Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; 
The amorous birds now pafr in every brake. 
And build their mossy homes in field and brere. 
And the green lizard, and the golden snake. 
Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake. 

XIX. 

Through wood and stream, and field and hill and 

Ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and motion. 
From the great jnorning of the world when first 
God dawn'd on Chaos ; in its stream immersed. 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; 
Difl^use themselves ; and spend in love's delight, 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 
3B 



XX. 

The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death. 
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; 
Naught we know, dies. Shall that alone which Imows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning ? — the intense atom glows 
A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. 

XXI. 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been. 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Wlience are we, and why are we ? of what scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must 

borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, 
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year 

to sorrow. 

XXII. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
" Wake thou," cried Misery, " childless Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes. 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried : " Arise ! " 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendor sprung 

XXIII. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings. 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier. 
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 
So struck, so roused, so wrapt Urania ; 
So sadden'd round her like an atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way. 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 

XXIV. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped, 

Through camps and cities, rough with stone and steel, 

And human hearts, which to her aery tread 

Yielding not, wounded the invisible 

Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : 

And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than 

they. 
Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 

XXV. 
In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flash'd through those limbs, so late her dear delight. 
" Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless. 
As silent lightning leaves the starless night! 
Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met her 



\am caress. 



409 



162 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVI. 

«• Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And in my heartless breast and burning brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive, 
With food of saddest memory kept ahve, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart! 

XXVII. 

" O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was then 
Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear ? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. 

XXVIII. 

" The herded wolves, bold only to pursue ; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how they fled, 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no second hjow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go. 

XXIX. 

" The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gather'd into death without a dawn, 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it in the world of living 'men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain shepherds camC; 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 
An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wiles lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 
And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness. 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way. 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. 



XXXII. 
A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation mask'd i — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a faUing shower, 
A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken ? On the withering flower 
The kiUing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may 
break. 

XXXIII. 
His head was bound with pansies over-blown, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 
And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone. 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it ; of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 

Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle 

band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sang new sorrow ; sad Urania scann'd 
The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?" 
He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's, — Oh! that it should 

be so! 

XXXV. 

What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead ? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed. 
In mockery of monumental stone. 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honor'd the departed one; 
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs. 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

XXXVI. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? 
The nameless worm would now itself disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, 
But what was howling in one breast alone. 
Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. 

XXXVII. 
Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 
Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom, when thy fangs o'erflow : 
Remoree and Self-contempt shall chng to thee ; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now. 
410 



ADONAIS. 



163 



XXXVIII. 
Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion-kites that scream below ; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. — 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unquenchably the same 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 
Peace ! peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 
He hath awaken'd from the dream of life — 
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living 
clay. 

XL. 
He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 
I Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 

XLI. 

I He lives, he wakes — 't is Death is dead, not he ; 

Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn 
I Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee 

I The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 

Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown 
O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair ! 

XLII. 

He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
"JVhich wields the world with never-wearied love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

XLIII. 
He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling 

there 
All new successions to the forms they wear ; 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. 



XLIV. 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not , 
Like stars to their appointed height they climb, 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy 
air. 

XLV. 

The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown 
Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought. 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved : 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 

XLVI. 

And many more, whose names on earth are dark. 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die. 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
" Thou art become as one of us," they cry, 
" It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty. 
Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 
throng ! " 

XLVII. 

Who mourns for Adonais ? oh come forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the 
brink. 

XLVIII. 
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
O, not of him, but of our joy : 'tis naught 
That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their prey j 
And he is gather'd to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 

XLIX. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise 
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness, 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 
411 



164 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transform'd to marble ; and beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of death, 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd 
breath. 

LI. 

Here, pause : these graves are all too young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrows which consign'd 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set. 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest home. 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 

LII. 

The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-color'd glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 



LIII. 
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is pass'd from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near : 
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can join to- 
gether. 

LIV. 
That Light whose smiles kindle the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Wliich through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst ; now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

LV. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in soiig 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven : 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. if 



Spin^ficliCSrCon ; 



VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY EMILIA V- 
NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OP . 



L' anima amante si slancia fuori del create, e si crea nell' infinite un Mondo tutto per ( 
diverse assai da queste oscuro e paureso I'aratre.— Her own Words. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

(BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.) 



The writer of the following Lines died at Florence, 
as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wild- 
est of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where 
he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and 
where it was his hope to have realized a scheme of 
life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world 
of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practi- 
cable in this. His life was singular ; less on account 
of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than 
the ideal tinge which it received from his own char- 
acter and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita 
Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a cer- 
tain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history 



of the circumstances to which it relates ; and to a 
certain other class it must ever remain incomprehen- 
sible, from a defect of a common organ of perception 
for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, " gran 
vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto yeste 
di figura, o di colore rettorico : e domandato non sa- 
pesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa 
che avessero verace intendimento." 

The present Poem appears to have been intended 
by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. 
The stanza prefixed to the Poem is almost a literal 
translation from Dante's famous Canzone, 

Voi, ch' intendendo, 11 terzo ciel niovete, etc. 

The presumptuous application of the concluding lines 
to his own composition will raise a smile at the ex- 
pense of my unfortunate friend : be it a smile not of 
contempt, but pity. S, 

412 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



165 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few 
Who filly shall conceive thy reasoning, 
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain ; 
Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring 
Thee to base company (as chance may do). 
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, 
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again. 
My last delight! tell them that they are dull. 
And bid them own that thou art beautiful. 



Sweet Spirit ! Sister of that orphan one, 
Wliose empire is the name thou weepest on, 
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
These votive wreaths of witJier'd memory. 

Poor captive bird ! who, from thy narrow cage, 
Pourest such music, that it might assuage 
The rugged hearts of those who prison'd thee, 
W^ere they not deaf to all sweet melody ; 
This song shall be thy rose : its petals pale 
Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale ! 
But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom. 
And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. 

High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost for ever 
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavor, 
Till those bright plumes of thought, in which array'd 
It over-soared this low and worldly shade. 
Lie shatter'd ; and thy panting, wounded breast 
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest ! 
I weep vain tears : blood would less bitter be. 
Yet pour'd forth gladlier, could it profit thee. 

Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human. 
Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman 
All that is insupportable in thee 
Of light, and love, and immortahty ! 
Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse ! 
Veil'd Glory of this lampless Universe ! 
Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Thou living Form 
Among the Dead ! Thou Star above the Storm ! 
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror ! 
Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! Thou Mirror 
In whom, as in the splendor of the Sun, 
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on ! 
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now 
Flash, Ughtning-like, with unaccustom'd glow ; 
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song 
All of its much mortality and wrong. 
With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew 
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through. 
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy : 
Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 

I never thought before my death to see 
Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, 
I love thee ; though the world by no thin name 
Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame. 
Would we two had been twins of the same mother! 
Or, that the name my heart lent to another 
Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, 
Blending two beams of one eternity ! 



Yet were one lawful and the other true. 

These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, 

How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me ! 

I am not thine : I am a part of tliee. 



SweetLamp! my moth-like Musehasburntits wings; 
Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings. 
Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, 
All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, 
A lovely soul form'd to be blest and bless ? 
A well of seal'd and secret happiness. 
Whose waters like blithe light and music are, 
Vanquishing dissonance and gloom ? A Star 
Which moves not in the moving Heavens alone? 
A smile amid dark frowns ? a gentle tone 
Amid rude voices ? a beloved light ? 
A Sohtude, a Refuge, a Delight? 
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play 
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day. 
And lull fond grief asleep? A buried treasure? 
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure ? 
A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? — I measin-e 
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, 
And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 



She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way. 
And lured me towards sweet Death : as Night by Day, 
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, 
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope. 
In the suspended impulse of its lightness. 
Were less ethereally light : the brightness 
Of her divinest presence trembles through 
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 
Embodied in the windless Heaven of June, 
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the Moon 
Btirns, inextinguishably beautiful : 
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full 
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops. 
Killing the sense with passion ; sweet as stops 
Of planetary music heard in trance. 
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance. 
The sunbeams of those wells which ever leap 
Under the lightnings of the soul — too deep 
For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. 
The glory of her being, issuing thence. 
Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade 
Of unentangled intermixture, made 
By Love, of light and motion : one intense 
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing 
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing 
With the unintermitted blood, which there 
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 
The crimson pulse of living morning quiver), 
Continuously prolong'd, and ending never. 
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furl'd 
Which penetrates and clasps and fills the world; 
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress, 
And her loose hair ; and where some heavy tress 
The air of her own speed has disentwined. 
The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind ; 
And in the soul a wild odor is felt. 
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt 

Into the bosom of a frozen bud. 

See where she stands! a mortal shape endued 
With love and life, and light and deity, 
413 



166 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And motion which may change but cannot die ; 
An image of some bright Etemify ; 
A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendor 
Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a tender 
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love, 
Under whose motions life's dull billows move ; 
A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning; 
A Vision like incarnate April, warning, 
With smiles and tears. Frost the Anatomy 
Jnio his summer grave. 



Ah, woe is me ! 
"What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? how 
Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
That Love makes all things equal : I have heard 
By mine own heart this joyous truth averr'd : 
'The spirit of the worm beneath the sod, 
In love and worship blends itself with God. 

Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the Fate 
"Whose course has been so starless ! O too late 
JBeloved ! O too soon adored, by me ! 
For in the fields of immortality 
My spirit should at first have worshipp'd thine, 
A divine presence in a place divine ; 
Or should have moved beside it on this earth, 
A shadow of that substance, from its birth; 
But not as now : — J love thee ; yes, I feel 
That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright 
For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight. 
We — are we not form'd, as notes of music are, 
For one another, though dissimilar; 
Such difference without discord, as can make 
Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake 
As trembling leaves in a continuous air ? 

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare 
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wreckt. 
I never was attach'd to that great sect. 
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select 
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend. 
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend 
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code 
Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, 
Who travel to their home among the dead 
By the broad highway of the world, and so 
With one chain'd friend, perhaps a jealous foe, 
The dreariest and the longest journey go. 

True Love in this differs from gold and clay, 
That to divide is not to take away. 
Love is like understanding, that grows bright, 
Gazing on many truths ; 'tis like thy light, 
Imagination ! which from earth and sky. 
And from the depths of human phantasy, 
As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills 
The Universe with glorious beams, and kills 
Error, the worm, with many a sunlike arrow 
Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow 
The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates. 
The life that wears, the spirit that creates 
One object, and one form, and builds thereby 
A sepulchre for its Eternity. 



Mind from its object differs most in this : 
Evil from good ; misery from happiness ; 
The baser from the nobler ; the impure 
And frail, from what is clear and must endure. 
If you divide suffering and dross, you may 
Diminish till it is consumed away ; 
If you divide pleasure and love and thought. 
Each part exceeds the whole ; and we know not 
How much, while any yet remains unshared, 
Of pleasure may be gain'd, of sorrow spared : 
This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw 
The unenvied light of hope ; the eternal law 
By which those live, to whom this world of life 
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 
Tills for the promise of a later birth 
The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 



There was a Being whom my spirit ofl 
Met on its vision'd wanderings, far aloft. 
In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn. 
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn. 
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves 
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves 
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor 
Paved her light steps ; — on an imagined shores 
Under the gray beak of some promontory 
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory, 
That I beheld her not. In solitudes 
Her voice came to me through the whispering woods, 
And from the fountains, and the odors deep 
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep 
Of the sweet kisses which had luU'd them there. 
Breathed but of her to the enamor'd air ; 
And from the breezes, whether low or loud, 
And from the rain of every passing cloud. 
And from the singing of the summer-birds. 
And from all sounds, all silence. In the words 
Of antique verse and high romance, — in form, 
Sound, color — in whatever checks that Storm 
Which with the shatter'd present chokes the past ; 
And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom 
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom ; 
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth. — 



Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth 
I sprang, as one sandall'd with plumes of fire, 
And towards the loadstar of my one desire, 
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 
Is as a dead leafs in the owlet light. 
When it would seek in Hesper's setting sphere 
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre. 
As if it were a lamp of earthly flame. — 
But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tam^ 
Past, like a God throned on a winged planet, 
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it. 
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade ; 
And as a man with mighty loss dismay'd, 
I would have follow'd, though the grave between 
Yawn'd like a gulf whose spectres are unseen : 
When a voice said: — " O Thou of hearts the weakest, 
The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest." 
Then I — "where?" the world's echo answer'd "where!" 
And in that silence, and in my despair, 
I question'd every tongueless wind that flew 
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
414 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



167 



Whither 'twas fled, this soul out of my soul ; 

And murmur'd names and spells which have control 

Over the sightless tyrants of our fate ; 

But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate 

The night which closed on her ; nor uncreate 

That world within this Chaos, mine and me, 

Of which she was the veil'd Divinity, 

The world I say of thoughts that worshipp'd her : 

And therefore I went forth, with hope and fear 

And every gentle passion sick to death. 

Feeding my course with expectation's breath, 

Into the wintry forest of our life ,- 

And struggling through its error with vain strife, 

And stumbling in my weakness and my haste. 

And half bewilder'd by new forms, I past 

Seeking among those untaught foresters 

If I could find one form resembling hers. 

In which she might have mask'd herself from me. 

There, — One, whose voice was venom'd melody 

Sate by a well, under blue nightshade bowers; 

The breath of her false mouth was like faint flowers. 

Her touch was as electric poison, — flame 

Out of her looks into my vitals came. 

And from her living cheeks and bosom flew 

A kindling air, which pierced like honey-dew 

Into the core of my green heart, and lay 

Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray 

O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime 

With ruins of imseasonable time. 



In many mortal forms I rashly sought 
The shadow of that idol of my thought. 
And some were fair — but beauty dies away : 
Others were wise — but honey'd words betray : 
And One was true — oh ! why not true to me ? 
Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee, 
I lurn'd upon my thoughts, and stood at bay. 
Wounded and weak and panting ; the cold day 
Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 
When, like a noonday dawn, there shone again 
Deliverance. One stood on my path who seem'd 
As like the glorious shape which I had dream'd. 
As is the Moon, whose changes ever run 
Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright 

isles. 
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles. 
That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame. 
Which ever is transform'd, yet still the same. 
And warms not but illumines. Young and fair 
As the descended Spirit of that sphere. 
She hid me, as the Moon may hide the night 
From its own darkness, until all was bright 
Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm mind. 
And, as a cloud charioted by the wind. 
She led me to a cave in that wild place. 
And sate beside me, with her downward face 
Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb. 
And all my being became bright or dim 
As the Moon's image in a summer sea. 
According as she smiled or frown'd on me; 
And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed : 
Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead : — 
For at her silver voice came Death and Life, 
Unmindful each of their accustom'd strife, 



Mask'd like twin babes, a sister and a brother, 
The wandering hopes of one abandon'd mother. 
And through the cavern without wings they flew, 
And cried " Away, he is not of our crew." 
I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep. 



What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep, 
Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning lips 
Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse ; — 
And how my soul was as a lampless sea. 
And who was then its Tempest ; and when She, 
The Planet of that hour, was quench'd, what frost 
Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to coast 
The moving billows of my being fell 
Into a death of ice, immovable ; — 
And then — what earthquakes made it gape and split, 
The white Moon smiling all the while on it. 
These words conceal : — ^If not, each word would be 
The key of stanchless tears. Weep not for me ! 



At length, into the obscure Forest came 
The Vision I had sought through grief and shame. 
Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns 
Flash'd from her motion splendor like the Morn's, 
And from her presence life was radiated 
Through the gray earth and branches bare and dead, 
So that her way was paved, and roof 'd above. 
With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding love ; 
And music from her respiration spread 
Like light, — all other sounds were penetrated 
By the small, still, sweet spirit of that sound, 
So that the savage winds hung mule around ; 
And odors warm and fresh fell from her hair, 
Dissolving the dull cold in the froze air : 
Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, 
When light is changed to love, this glorious One 
Floated into the cavern where I lay, 
And call'd my Spirit, and the dreaming clay 
Was lifted by the thing that dream'd below 
As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 
I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night 
Was penetrating me with living light : 
I knew it was the Vision veil'd from me 
So many years — that it was Emily. 

Twin Spheres of light who nile this passive Earth, 
This world of love, this me ; and into birth 
Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart 
Magnetic might into its central heart; 
And lift its billows and its mists, and guide 
By everlasting laws, each wind and tide 
To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ; 
And lull its storms, each in the craggy grave 
Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers 
The armies of the rainbow- winged showers; 
And, as those married Ughts, which from the towers 
Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering globe 
In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe ; 
And all their many-mingled influence blend. 
If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ; — 
So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway 
Govern my sphere of being, night and day ! 
Thou, not disdaining even a borrow'd might ; 
Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
And, through the shadow of the seasons three, 
From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, 
415 



1G8 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Light it into the Winter of the tomb, 

Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom. 

Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce ! 

Who drew the heart of this frail Universe 

Towards thine own; till i\reck'd in that convulsion, 

Alternating attraction an'i repulsion. 

Thine went astray and ihat was rent in twain ; 

Oh, float into our azure heaven again ! 

Be there love's folding-star at thy return ; 

The living Sun will feed thee from its urn 

Of golden fire ; the Moon will veil her horn 

In thy last smiles ; adoring Even and Morn 

Will worship thee with incense of calm breath 

And lights and shadows ; as the star of Death 

And Birth is worshipp'd by those sisters wild 

Call'd Hope and Fear — upon the heart are piled 

Their offerings, — of this sacrifice divine 

A World shall be the altar. 



Lady mine, 
Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birth 
Which from its heart of hearts that plant puts forth 
Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes, 
Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 



The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me. 
To whatsoe'er of dull mortality 
Is mine, remain a vestal sister still ; 
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable, 
Not mine but me, henceforth be thou united 
Even as a bride delighting and delighted. 
The hour is come : — the destined Star has risen 
Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. 
The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set 

The sentinels but true love never yet 

Was thus constrain'd : it overleaps all fence : 
Like lightning, with invisible violence 
Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's free breath, 
Which he who grasps can hold not ; liker Death, 
Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way 
Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array 
Of arms : more strength has love than he or they ; 
For it can burst his charnel, and make free 
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony. 
The soul in dust and chaos. 



Emily, 
A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow ; 
There is a path on the sea's azure floor, 
No keel has ever plow'd that path before ; 
The halcyons brood around the foamless isles ; 
The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles ; 
The merry mariners are bold and free : 
Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me ? 
Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 
Is a far Eden of the purple East ; 
And we between her wings will sit, while Night 
And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight, 
Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, 
Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
It is an isle under Ionian skies. 
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 



And, for the harbors are not safe and good, 
This land would have remain'd a solitude 
But for some pastoral people native there. 
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air 
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold. 
Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold. 
The blue -^gean girds this chosen home. 
With ever-changing sound and light and foam. 
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar ; 
And all the winds wandering along the shore 
Undulate with the undulating tide : 
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide; 
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond, 
As clear as elemental diamond. 
Or serene morning air ; and far beyond. 
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer 
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year). 
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls 
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls 
Illumining, with sound that never fails, 
Accompany the noonday nightingales ; 
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs ; 
The light clear element which the isle weai*s 
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers. 
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers, 
And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep ; 
And from the moss, violets and jonquils peep, 
And dart their arrowy odor through the brain 
Till you might faint with that delicious pain. 
And every motion, odor, beam and tone, 
With that deep music is in unison : 
Which is a soul within the soul — they seem 
Like echoes of an antenatal dream. — 
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea, 
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity ; 
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer, 
Wash'd by the soft blue Oceans of young air. 
It is a favor'd place. Famine or Blight, 
Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never light 
Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vultures, they 
Sail onward far upon their fatal way : . 
The winged storms, chanting their thunder-psalm 
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm 
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew. 
From which its fields and woods ever renew 
Their green and golden immortality. 
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky 
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright, 
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight. 
Which Sun or Moon or Zephyr draw aside. 
Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride 
Glowing at once with love and loveliness, 
Blushes and trembles at its own excess : 
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
Burns in tlie heart of this delicious isle 
An atom of th' Eternal, whose own smile 
Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen. 
O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green, 
Filling their bare and void interstices. — 
But the chief marvel of the wilderness 
Is a lone dwelhng, built by whom or how 
None of the rustic island-people know ; 
'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height 
It overtops the woods ; but, for delight. 
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime 
.Had been invented, in the world's young prime, 
Rear'd it, a wonder of that simple time 
416 



EPIPSYCHIDION. 



169 



An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house 

Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 

It scarce seems now a Wreck of human art, 

But, as it were, Titanic ; in the heart 

Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown 

Out of the mountains, from the living stone, 

Lifting itself in caverns light and high : 

For all the antique and learned imagery 

Has been erased, and in the place of it 

The ivy and the wild-vine interknit 

The volumes of their many twining stems ; 

Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems 

The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky 

Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery 

With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen, 

Or fragments of the day's intense serene ; — 

Working mosaic on their Parian floors. 

And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers 

And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem 

To sleep in one another's arms, and dream 

Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that 

we 
Read in their smiles, and call reality. 

This isle and house are mine, and I have vow'd 
Thee to be lady of the solitude. — 
And I have fitted up some chambers there, 
Looking towards the golden Eastern air, 
And level with the living winds, which flow 
Like waves above the living waves below. — 
I have sent books and music there, and all 
Those instruments with which high spirits call 
The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present last 
In thoughts and joys, which sleep, but cannot die, 
Folded within their own eternity. 
Our simple life wants little, and true taste 
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to waste 
The scene it would adorn ; and therefore still, 
Nature, with all her children, haunts the hill. 
The ringdove, in the embowering ivy, yet 
Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit 
Round the evening tower, and the young stars glance 
Between the quick bats in their twilight dance ; 
The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight 
Before our gate, and the slow, silent night 
Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep. 
Be this our home in life, and when years heap 
Their wither'd hours, like leaves, on our decay, 
Let us become the over-hanging day. 
The living soul of this Elysian isle. 
Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together, 
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. 
And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend 
With lightest winds, to touch their paramour ; 
Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, 
Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea, 
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 



Possessing and possest by all that is 

Within that calm circumference of bliss. 

And by each other, till to love and live 

Be one : — or, at the noontide hour, arrive , 

Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep 

The moonlight of the expired night asleep. 

Through which the awaken'd day can never peep ; 

A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 

Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights ; 

Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain 

Whose drops quench kisses till they bum again. 

And we will talk, until thought's melody 

Become too sweet for utterance, and it die 

In words, to live again in looks, which dart 

With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart, 

Harmonizing silence without a sound. 

Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, 

And our veins beat together ; and our lips. 

With other eloquence than words, eclipse 

The soul that burns between them ; and the wells 

Which boil under our being's inmost cells, 

The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 

Confused in passion's golden purity. 

As mountain-springs under the morning Sun. 

We shall become the same, we shall be one 

Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore two ? 

On# passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew, 

Till, like two meteors of expanding flame. 

Those spheres instinct with it become the same. 

Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever still 

Burning, yet ever inconsumable : 

In one another's substance finding food. 

Like flames too pure and light and unimbued 

To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, 

Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away : 

One hope within two wills, one will beneath 

Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, 

One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 

And one annihilation. Woe is me ! 

The winged words on which my soul would pierce 

Into the height of love's rare Universe, 

Are chains of lead around its flight of fire. — 

I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 



Weak verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet. 
And say : — " We are the masters of thy slave ; 
What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine ? " 
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, 
All singing loud : " Love's very pain is sweet. 
But its reward is in the world divine 
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave." 
So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste 
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest. 
And bid them love each other and be blest : 
And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves. 
And come and be my guest,— for I am Love's. 
417 



3C 



170 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



MANT2 EIM' ESeAilN AmNflN. 

(Edip. Colon. 

TO HIS EXCELLENCY PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO, 

LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA, 

THE DRAMA OF HELLAS 

IS INSCRIBED AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP OF 

Pisa, November 1, 1821. THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The poem of Hellas, written at the suggestion of 
the events of the moment, is a mere improvise, and 
derives its interest (should it be found to possess any) 
solely from the intense sympathy which the Author 
feels with the cause he would celebrate. 

The subject in its present state is insusceptible of 
being treated otherwise than lyrically, and if I have 
called this poem a drama from the circumstance of 
its being composed in dialogue, the license is not 
greater than that which has been assumed by other 
poets, who have called their productions epics, only 
because they have been divided into twelve or twenty- 
four books. 

The Persae of ^schylus afforded me the first model 
of my conception, although the decision of the glori- 
ous contest now waging in Greece being yet suspend- 
ed, forbids a catastrophe parallel to the return of 
Xerxes and the desolation of the Persians. I have, 
therefore, contented myself with exhibiting a series 
of lyric pictures, and with having wrought upon the 
curtain of futurity, which falls upon the unfinished 
scene, such figures of indistinct and visionary deUnea- 
tion as suggest the final triumph of the Greek cause 
as a portion of the cause of civilization and social 
improvement. 

The drama (if drama it must be called) is, however, 
so inartificial that I doubt whether, if recited on the 
Thespian w'agon to an Athenian village at the Diony- 
siaca, it would have obtained the prize of the goat. 
I shall bear with equanimity any punishment greater 
than the loss of such a reward which the Aristarchi 
of the hour may think fit to inflict. 

The only goat-song which I have yet attempted 
has, I confess, in spite of the unfavorable nature of 
the subject, received a greater and a more valuable 
portion of applause than I expected, or than it de- 
served. 

Common fame is the only authority which I can 
allege for the details which form the basis of the poem, 
and I must trespass upon the forgiveness of my read- 
ers for the display of newspaper erudition to which 
I have been reduced. Undoubtedly, until the con- 
clusion of the war, it will be impossible to obtain 
an account of it sufficiently authentic for historical 
materials ; but poets have their privilege, and it is 
unquestionable that actions of the most exalted cour- 



age have been performed by the Greeks — that they 
have gained more than one naval victory, and that 
their defeat in Wallachia was signalized by circum- 
stances of heroism more glorious even than victory. 

The apathy of the rulers of the civilized world, to 
the astonishing circumstances of the descendants of 
that nation to which they owe their civilization — 
rising as it were from the ashes of their ruin, is some- 
thing perfectly inexplicable to a mere spectator of 
the shows of this mortal scene. We are all Greeks. 
Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts, have 
their root in Greece. But for Greece — Rome the 
instructor, the conqueror, or the metropolis of our an- 
cestors, would have spread no illumination with her 
arms, and we might still have been savages and idol- 
aters ; or, what is worse, might have arrived at such 
a stagnant and miserable state of social institution as 
China and Japan possess. 

The human form and the human mind attained to 
a perfection in Greece which has impressed its image 
on those faultless productions whose very fragments 
are the despair of modern art, and has propagated 
impulses which cannot cease, through a thousand 
channels of manifest or imperceptible operation, to 
ennoble and delight manldnd until the extinction of 
the race. 

The modem Greek is the descendant of those 
glorious beings whom the imagination almost refuses 
to figure to itself as belonging to our kind ; and he 
inherits much of their sensibility, their rapidity of 
conception, their enthusiasm, and their courage. If 
in many instances he is degraded by moral and politi- 
cal slavery to the practice of the basest vices it en- 
genders, and that below the level of ordinary degra- 
dation ; let us reflect that the corruption of the best 
produces the worst, and that habits which subsist 
only in relation to a peculiar state of social institu- 
tion may be expected to cease, as soon as that rela- 
tion is dissolved. In fact, the Greeks, since the ad- 
mirable novel of " Anastatius " could have been a 
faithful picture of their manners, have undergone most 
important changes. The flower of their youth, re- 
turning to their country from the universities of Italy, 
Germany and France, have communicated to their 
fellow-citizens the latest results of that social per- 
fection of which their ancestors were the original 
soiu-ce. The university of Chios contained before 
the breaking out of the revolution eight hundred 
418 



HELLAS. 



171 



students, and among them several Germans and 
Americans. The munificence and energy of many 
of the Greek princes and merchants, directed to the 
renovation of their country with a spirit and a wis- 
dom which has few examples, is above all praise. 

The English permit their own oppressors to act 
according to their natural sympathy with the Turkish 
tyrant, and to brand upon their name the indelible 
blot of an alUance with the enemies of domestic 
happiness, of Christianity and civilization. 

Russia desires to possess, not to liberate Greece ; 
and is contented to see the Turks, its natural ene- 
mies, and the Greeks, its intended slaves, enfeeble 
each other, until one or both fall into its net. The 
wise and generous policy of England would have 
consisted in establishing the independence of Greece 
and in maintaining it both against Russia and the 
Turk; — but when was the oppressor generous or 
just? 

The Spanish Peninsula is already free. France is 
tranquil in the enjoyment of a partial exemption 
from the abuses which its unnatural and feeble gov- 
ernment is vainly attempting to revive. The seed 
of blood and misery has been sown in Italy, and a 
more vigorous race is arising to go forth to the har- 
vest. The world waits only the new^s of a revolution 
of Germany, to see the tyrants who have pinnacled 
themselves on its supineness precipitated into the ruin 
from which they shall never arise. Well do these 
destroyers of mankind know their enemy, when they 
impute the insurrection in Greece to the same spirit 
before which they tremblie throughout the rest of 
Europe ; and that enemy well knows the power and 
cunning of its opponents, and watches the moment 
of their approaching weakness and inevitable divis- 
ion, to wrest the bloody sceptres from their grasp. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Mahmud. 
Hassan. 

Daood. 

Ahasuerus, a Jew. 

Chorus of Greek captive Women. 

Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants. 



Scene, — Constantinople. 
Time, — Sunset. 



HELLAS. 



Scene, a Terrace on the Seraglio. 

Mahmud (sleeping), an Indian Slave sitting beside his 
Couch. 

CHORUS OF GREEK CAPTIVE WOMEN. 

We strew these opiate flowers 

On thy restless pillow, — 
They w^ere stript from Orient bowers, . 
By the Indian billow. 
Be thy sleep 
Calm and deep, 
Like theirs who fell— not ours who weep ! 



Away, unlovely dreams ! 

Away, false shapes of sleep : 
Be his, as Heaven seems, 

Clear, bright and deep ! 
Soft as love and calm as death. 
Sweet as a summer-night without a breath. 



Sleep, sleep ! our song is laden 

With the soul of slumber ; 
It was sung by a Samian maiden, 
Whose lover was of the number 
Who now keep 
That calm sleep 
Whence none may wake, where none shall weep. 

INDIAN. 

I touch thy temples pale ! 

I breathe my soul on thee! 
And could my prayers avail. 
All my joy should be 
Dead, and I would live to weep, 
So thou mightst win one hour of quiet sleep. 



Breathe low, low. 
The spell of the mighty mistress now ! 
When conscience lulls her sated snake. 
And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake. 
Breathe low, low, 
The words which, like secret fire, shall flow 
Through the veins of the frozen earth^-Iow, low! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Life may change, but it may fly not ; 
Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 
Truth be veil'd, but still it bumeth ; 
Love repulsed, — but it retumeth ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Yet were life a chamel, where 
Hope lay coffin'd with despair; 
Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
Love were lust — 

SEMICHORUS I. 

If Liberty 
Lent not life its soul of light, 
Hope its iris of delight. 
Truth its prophet's robe to wear. 
Love its power to give and bear. 



In the great morning of the world. 
The spirit of God with might unfurl'd 
The flag of Freedom over Chaos, 

And all its banded anarchs fled. 
Like vultures frighted from Imaus, 

Before an earthquake's tread — 
So from Time's tempestuous dawn 
Freedom's splendor burst and shone : — 
Thermopylae and Marathon 
Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, 

The springing fire. — The winged glory 
On Philippi half-alighted, 

Like an eagle on a promontory. 
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172 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Its unwearied wings could fan 
The quenchless ashes of Milan.* 
From age to age, from man to man 

It lived ; and lit from land to land 

Florence, Albion, Switzerland : 
Then night fell; and as from night 
Reassuming fiery flight, 
From the West swift Freedom came, 

Against the course of Heaven and doom 
A second sun array'd in flame ; 

To bum, to kindle, to illume, 
From far Atlantis its young beams 
Chased the shadows and the dreams. 
France, with all her sanguine steams, 

Hid, but quench'd it not; again 

Through clouds its shafts of glory rain 

From utmost Germany to Spain. 
As an eagle fed with morning 
Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, 
When she seeks her airy hanging 

In the mountain cedar's hair. 
And her brood expect the clanging 

Of her wings through the wild air. 
Sick with famine — Freedom so 
To what of Greece remaineth now 
Returns ; her hoary ruins glow 
Like orient mountains lost in day ; 

Beneath the safety of her wings 
Her renovated nurslings play. 

And in the naked lightnings 
Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. 
Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies, 
A desert, or a Paradise ; 

Let the beautiful and the brave 

Share her glory, or a grave. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

With the gifts of gladness 
Greece did thy cradle strew. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

With the tears of sadness 
Greece did thy shroud bedew. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

With an orphan's affection 

She follow'd thy bier through time ; 

SEMICHORUS II. 

And at thy resurrection 

Reappeareth, like thou, sublime ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

' If Heaven should resume thee. 

To Heaven shall her spirit ascend ; 

SEMICHORUS II. 

If Hell should entomb thee ; 

To Hell shall her tiigh hearts bend. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

If Annihilation — 



* Milan was the centre of the resistance of the Lombard 
league against the Austrian tyrant. Frederic Barbarossa 
burnt the city to the ground, but liberty lived in its ashes, 
and it rose like an exhalation from its ruin. — See Sis- 
MONDi's '■'■ HisUnres des Republiques Italiennes," a book 
which has done much towards awakening the Italians to 
an imitation of their great ancestors. 



SEMICHORUS II. 

Dust let her glories be ; 
And a name, and a nation 

Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee ! 

INDIAN. 

His brow grows darker — breathe not — move not ! 
He starts — he shudders ; — ye that love not, 
With your panting loud and fast 
Have awaken'd him at last. 

MAHMUD {starting from his sleep). 
Man the Seraglio-guard ! make fast the gate ! 
What ! from a cannonade of three short hours ? 
'Tis false! that breach towards the Bosphorus 
Cannot be practicable yet — Who stirs ? 
Stand to the match ; that when the foe prevails. 
One spark may mix in reconciling ruin 
The conqueror and the conquer'd ! Heave the tower 
Into the gap — wrench off the roof. 

E7iter Hassan. 

Ha! what! 
The truth of day lightens upon my dream. 
And I am Mahmud still. 



Is strangely moved. 



HASSAN. 

Your Sublime Highness 



MAHMUD. 

The times do cast strange shadows 
On those who watch and who must rule their course. 
Lest they, being first in peril as in glory. 
Be whelm'd in the fierce ebb : — and these are of them. 
Thrice has a gloomy vision haunted me 
As thus from sleep into the troubled day ; 
It shakes me as the tempest shakes the sea. 
Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. 
Would that — no matter. Thou didst say thou knewest 
A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle 
Of strange and secret and forgotten things. 
I bade thee summon him : — 'tis said his tribe 
Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. 

HASSAN. 

The Jew of whom I spake is old, — so old 
He seems to have outlived a world's decay ; 
The hoary mountains and the wrinkled ocean 
Seem younger still than he ; — ^his hair and beard 
Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow ; 
His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries 
Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct 
With light, and to the soul that quickens them 
Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift 
To the winter wind : — but from his eye looks forth 
A life of unconsumed thought, which pierces 
The present, and the past, and the to-come. 
Some say that this is he whom the great prophet 
Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery 
Mock'd with the curse of immortality. 
Some feign that he is Enoch ; others dream 
He was pre-adamite, and has survived 
Cycles of generation and of ruin. 
The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence 
And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh. 
Deep contemplation, and unwearied study. 
In years outstretch'd beyond the date of man, 
May have obtain'd to sovereignty and science 

420 



HELLAS. 



173 



Over those strong and secret things and thoughts 
Which others fear and know not 



I would talk 



With this old Jew. 



HASSAN. 

Thy will is even now 
Made known to him, where he dwells in a sea-cavern 
'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible 
Than thou or God ! He who would question him 
Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream 
Of ocean sleeps around those foamless isles 
When the young moon is westering as now, 
And evening airs wander upon the wave ; 
And when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, 
Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow 
Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water ; 
Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud, 
Ahasuerus ! and the caverns round 
Will answer, Ahasuerus ! If his prayer 
Be granted, a faint meteor will arise, 
Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind 
Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, 
And with the wind a storm of harmony 
Unutterably sweet, and pilot him 
Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus : 
Thence, at the hour and place and circumstance 
Fit for the matter of their conference, 
The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare, 
Win the desired communion — but that shout 
Bodes— [A shout without 

MAHMUD. 

Evil, doubtless ; like all human sounds. 
Let rae converse with spirits. 

HASSAN. 

That shout again ! 

MAHMUD. 

This Jew Avhom thou hast summon'd — 

HASSAN. 

Will be here — 

MAHMUD. 

When the omnipotent hour, to which are yoked 
He, I, and all things, shall compel — enough. 
Silence those mutineers — that drunken crew 
That crowd about the pilot in the storm. 
Ay ! strike the foremost shorter by a head ! 
They weary me, and I have need of rest. 
Kings are like stars— they rise and set, they have 
The worship of the world, but no repose. 

[Exeunt severally, 

CHORUS.* 

Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 

From creation to decay, 
Like the bubbles on a river. 

Sparkling, bursting, borne away; 
I But they are still immortal 

Who, through birth's orient portal. 



* The popular notions of Christianity are represented in this 
chorus as true in their relation to the worship they superseded, 
and that which in all probability they will supersede, without 
considering their merits in a relation more universal. The first 
stanza contrasts the immortality of the living and thinking 
beings which inhabit the planets, and, to use a common and 
inadequate phrase, clothe themselves in matter, with the tran- 
sience of the noblest manifestations of the external world. 

The concluding verse indicates a progressive state of more 



And Death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro, 

Clothe their unceasing flight 

In the brief dust and light 
Gather'd around their chariots as they go ; 

New shapes they still may weave, 

New Gods, new laws receive ; 
Bright or dim are they, as the robes they last 
On Death's bare ribs had cast. 

A power from the unknown God ; 
A Promethean conqueror came; 
Like a triumphal path he trod 
The thorns of death and shame. 
A mortal shape to him 
Was like the vapor dim 
Which the orient planet animates with light; 
Hell, Sin and Slavery came, 
Like blood-hounds mild and tame, 
Nor prey'd until their lord had taken flight. 
The moon of Mahomet 
Arose, and it shall set : 
While blazon'd as on Heaven's immortal noon 
The cross leads generations on. 

Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 

From one whose dreams are paradise, 
Fly when the fond wretch wakes to weep. 
And day peers forth with her blank eyes ! 
So fleet, so faint, so fair, 
The powers of earth and air 
Fled from the folding-star of Bethlehem : 
Apollo, Pan, and Love, 
And even Olympian Jove 
Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them. 
Our hills, and seas, and streams. 
Dispeopled of their dreams. 
Their waters turn'd to blood, their dew to tears, 
Wail'd for the golden years. 

Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and others. 

MAHMUD. 

More gold ? our ancestors bought gold with victory, 
And shall I sell it for defeat ? 

DAOOD. 

The Janizars 
Clamor for pay. 

MAHMUD. 

Go ! bid them pay themselves 
With Christian blood ! Are there no Grecian virgins 



or less exalted existence, according to the degree of perfection 
which every distinct intelligence may have attained.! Let it not 
be supposed that I mean to dogmatize upon a subject concern- 
ing which all men are equally ignorant, or that 1 think the 
Gordian knot of the origin of evil can be disentangled by that 
or any similar assertions. The received hypothesis of a Being 
resembling men in the moral attributes of his nature, having 
called us out of non-existence, and after inflicting on us the 
misery of the commission of error, should superadd that of the 
punishment and the privations consequent upon it, still would 
remain inexplicable and incredible. That there is a true solu- 
tion of the riddle, and that in our present state that solution is 
unattainable by us, are propositions which may be regarded as 
equally certain ; meanwhile, as it is the province of the poet to 
attach himself to those ideas which exalt and ennoble humanity, 
let him be permitted to have conjectured the condition of that 
futurity towards which we are all impelled by an inextinguish- 
able thirst for immortality. Until better arguments can be pro- 
duced than sophisms which disgrace the cause, this desire itself 
must remain the strongest and the only presumption that eter • 
nity is the inheritance of every thinking being. 
421 



174 



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Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they may enjoy? 

No infidel children to impale on spears ? 

No hoary priests after that patriarch* 

Who bent the curse against his country's heart, 

Which clove his own at last ? Go ! bid them kill : 

Blood is the seed of gold. 

DAOOD. 

It has been sown, 
And yet the harvest to the sickle-men 
Is as a grain to each. 

MAHMUD. 

Then, take this signet : 
Unlock the seventh chamber, in vi^hich lie 
The treasures of victorious Solyman. 
An empire's spoils stored for a day of ruin — 
O spirit of my sires I is it not come ? 
The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged and sleep. 
But these, who spread their feast on the red earth, 
Hunger for gold, which fills not. — See them fed ; 
Then lead them to the rivers of fresh death. 

[Exit Daood. 
Oh ! miserable dawn, after a night 
More glorious than the day which it usurp'd ! 
O, faith in God ! O, power on earth ! O, word 
Of the great Prophet, whose overshadowing wings 
Darken'd the thrones and idols of the west. 
Now bright ! — For thy sake cursed be the hour, 
Even as a father by an evil child, 
When the orient moon of Islam roU'd in triumph 
From Caucasus to white Ceraunia ! 
Ruin above, and anarchy below ; 
Terror without, and treachery within ; 
The chalice of destruction full, and all 
Thirsting to drink; and who among us dares 
To dash it from his lips ? and where is Hope ? 

HASSAN. 

The lamp of our dominion still rides high; 
One God is God — Mahomet is his Prophet. 
Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the limits 
Of utmost Asia irresistibly 
Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry, 
But not like them to weep their strength in tears ; 
They have destroying lightning, and their step 
Wakes earthquake, to consume and overwhelm, 
And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, 
Tymolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen 
With horrent arms, and lofty ships, even now, 
Like vapors anchor'd to a mountain's edge, 
Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala 
The convoy of the ever-veering wind. 
Samos is drunk with blood ; — the Greek has paid 
Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. • 
The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far 
When the fierce shout of AUah-illah- Allah ! 
Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind, 
Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock 
Of wild swans struggling with the naked storm. 
So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day! 



* The Greek Patriarch, after having been compelled to ful- 
minate an anathema against the insurgents, was put to death 
by the Turks. 

Fortunately the Greeks have been taught that they cannot 
buy security by degradation, and the Turks, though equally 
cruel, are less cunning than the smooth-faced tyrants of Europe. 

As to the anathema, his Holiness might as well have thrown 
his mitre at Mount Athos, for any effect that it produced. The 
chiefs of the Greeks are almost all men of comprehension and 
enlightened views on religion and politics. 



If night is mute, yet the returning sun 

Kindles the voices of the morning birds ; 

Nor at thy bidding less exultingly 

Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, 

The anarchies of Africa unleash 

Their tempest- winged cities of the sea, 

To speak in thunder to the rebel world. 

Like sulphurous clouds half-shatter'd by the storm 

They sweep the pale ^gean, while the Queen 

Of Ocean, bound upon her island throne, 

Far in the west sits mourning that her sons. 

Who frown on Freedom, spare a smile for thee : 

Russia still hovers, as an eagle might 

Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane 

Hang tangled in inextricable fight, 

To stoop upon the victor ; — for she fears 

The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine , 

But recreant Austria loves thee as the grave 

Loves pestilence, and her slow dogs of war, 

Flesh'd with the chase, come up from Italy, 

And howl upon their limits ; for they see 

The panther Freedom fled to her old cover 

'Mid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood 

Crouch around. What anarch wears a crown or <nilve, 

Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold. 

Whose friends are not thy friends, whose foes thj» foor* ? 

Our arsenals and our armories are full ; 

Our forts defy assaults; ten thousand cannon 

Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour 

Their earth-convulsing wheels afTright the city ; 

The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale 

The Christian merchant, and the yellow Jew 

Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. 

Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds 

Over the hills of Anatolia, 

Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry 

Sweep ; — the far-flashing of their starry lances 

Reverberates the dying light of day. 

We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law, 

But many-headed Insurrection stands 

Divided in itself, and soon must fall. 



Proud words, when deeds come short, are seasonable* 
Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazon'd 
Upon that shatter'd flag of fiery cloud 
Which leads the rear of the departing day. 
Wan emblem of an empire fading now ! 
See how it trembles in the blood-red air, 
And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent, 
Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above. 
One star with insolent and victorious light 
Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams. 
Like arrows through a fainting antelope, 
Strikes its weak form to death. 



Renews itself- 



Even as that moon 



MAHMUD. 

Shall we be not renew'd ! 
Far other bark than ours were needed now 
To stem the torrent of descending time : 
The spirit that lifts the slave before its lord 
Stalks through the capitals of armed kings. 
And spreads his ensign in the wilderness ; 
Exults in chains ; and when the rebel falls. 
Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust j 
422 



HELLAS. 



175 



And the inheritors of earth, like beasts 
When earthquake is unleash'd, with idiot fear 
Cower in their kingly dens — as I do now. 
What were Defeat, when Victory must appal ? 
Or Danger, when Security looks pale ? 
How said the messenger — who from the fort 
IsJnnded in the Danube, saw the battle 
Of Bucharest ?— that— 

HASSAN. 

Ibrahim's scimitar 
Drew with its gleam swift Tictory from heaven, 
To burn before him in the night of battle — 
A light and a destruction. 

MAHMUD. 

Ay I the day 
Was ours ; but how ? — 

HASSAN. 

The light Wallachians, 
The Amaut, Servian, and Albanian allies, 
Fled from the glance of our artillery 
Almost before the thunder-stone alit ; 
One-half the Grecian army made a bridge 
Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead ; 
The other— 



Speak- 



MAHMUD. 

-tremble not — 



HASSAN. 

Islanded 
By victor myriads, form'd in hollow square 
With rough and stedfast front, and thrice flung back 
The deluge of our foaming cavalry ; '^ 
Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines. 
Our baffled army trembled like one man 
Before a host, and gave them space ; but soon, 
From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, 
Kneading them down with fire and iron rain. 
Yet none approach'd ; till, like a field of com 
Under the hook of the swart sickle-man. 
The bands intrench'd in mounds of Turkish dead 
Grew weak and few — Then said the Pacha, " Slaves, 
Render yourselves ! — They have abandon'd you — 
What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid ? 
We grant your lives." — " Grant that which is thine 

own," 
Cried one, and fell upon his Sword and died ! 
Another — " God, and man, and hope abandon me ; 
But I to them and to myself remain 
Constant ;" — he bow'd his head, and his heart burst. 
A third exclaim'd, " There is a refuge, tyrant. 
Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm, 
Shouldst thou pursue ; there we shall meet again." 
Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm, 
The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment 
Among the slain — dead earth upon the earth ! 
So these survivors, each by different ways. 
Some strange, all sudden, none dishonorable, 
Met in triumphant death ; and when our army, 
Closed in, while yet in wonder, and awe, and shame, 
Held back the base hyenas of the battle 
That feed upon the dead and fly the living, 
One rose out of the chaos of the slain ; 
And if it were a corpse which some dead spirit 
Of the old saviors of the land we rule 
Had lifted in its anger, wandering by ; 
Of if there burn'd within the dying man 
Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith 
Creating what it feign'd ,• — I cannot tell. 



But he cried, " Phantoms of the free, we come ! 

Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike 

To dust the citadels of sanguine kings. 

And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts. 

And thaw their frost-work diadems like dew !— 

O ye who float around this clime, and weave 

The garment of the glory which it wears, 

Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasp'd, 

Lies sepulchred in monumental thought ! 

Progenitors of ail that yet is great. 

Ascribe to your bright senate, O, accept 

In your high ministrations, us, your sons — 

Us first, and the more glorious yet to come ! 

And ye, weak conquerors ! giants who look pale 

When the crush'd worm rebels beneath your tread— 

The vultures, and the dogs, your pensioners tame, 

Are overgorged ; but, like oppressors, still 

They crave the relic of destruction's feast. 

The exhalations and the thirsty winds 

Are sick with blood ; the dew is foul with death — 

Heaven's light is quench'd in slaughter: Thus 

where'er 
Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets. 
The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast 
Of these dead limbs upon your streams and mountains, 
Upon your fields, your gardens, and your house-tops, 
Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly, 
Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down 
With poison'd light — Famine, and Pestilence, 
And Panic, shall wage war upon our side ! 
Nature from all her boundaries is moved 
Against ye : Time has found ye light as foam. 
The Earth rebels ; and Good and Evil stake 
Their empire o'er the unborn world of men 
On this one cast — but ere the die be thrown. 
The renovated genius of our race. 
Proud umpire of this impious game, descends 
A seraph-winged Victory, bestriding 
The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, 
Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom. 
And you to Oblivion ! " — More he would have said. 
But— 

MAHMUD. 

Died — as thou shouldst ere thy lips had painted 
Their ruin in the hues of our success. 
A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue ! 
Your heart is Greek, Hassan. 



It may be so : 
A spirit not my own wrench 'd me within. 
And I have spoken words I fear and hate ; 
Yet would I die for — 

MAHMUD. 

Live ! O live ! outlive 
Me and this sinking empire : — but the fleet — 



HASSAN. 



Alas! 



MAHMUD. 

The fleet which, like a flock of clouds 
Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner ; 
Our winged castles from their merchant ships ! 
Our myriads before their weak pirate bands ! 
Our arms before their chains ! Our years of empire 
Before their centuries of servile fear ! 
Death is awake ! Repulsed on the waters. 
They own no more the thunder-bearing banner 
423 



176 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of Mahmud ; but like hounds of a base breed, 
Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their master. 

HASSAN. 

Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae, saw 
The wreck — 

MAHMUD. 

The caves of the Icarian isles 
Howl each to the other in loud mockery, 
And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes 
First of the sea-convulsing fight — and then — 
Thou darest to speak — senseless are the mountains ; 
Interpret thou their voice ! 

HASSAN. 

My presence bore 
A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet 
Bore down at day-break from the North, and hung, 
As multitudinous on the ocean line 
As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. 
Our squadron, convoying ten thousand men, 
Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle . 
Was kindled. — 

First through the hail of our artillery 
The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail 
Dash'd : — ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man 
To man were grappled in the embrace of war, 
Inextricable but by death or victory. 
The tempest of the raging fight convulsed 
To its crystalline depths that stainless sea. 
And shook heaven's roof of golden morning clouds 
Poised on an hundred azure mountain-isles. 
In the brief trances of the artillery, 
One cry from the destroy 'd and the destroyer 
Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapt 
The unforeseen event, till the north wind 
Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil 
Of battle-smoke — then victory — victory ! 
For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers 
Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon 
The abhorred cross glimmer'd behind, before, 
Among, around us ; and that fatal sign 
Dried with its beams the strength of Moslem hearts, 
As the sun drinks the dew. — What more ? We fled ! 
Our noonday path over the sanguine foam 
Was beacon'd, and the glare struck the sun pale 
By our consuming transports : the fierce light 
Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red, 
And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding 
The ravening fire even to the water's level : 
Some were blown up : some, settling heavily. 
Sunk ; and the shrieks of our companions died 
Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far. 
Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perish'd! 
We met the vultures legion'd in the air. 
Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind : 
They, screaming from the cloudy mountain peak 
Stoop'd through the sulphurous battle-smoke, and 

perch'd 
Each on the weltering carcass that we loved, 
Like its ill angel or its damned soul- 
Riding upon the bosom of the sea. 
We saw the dog-fish hastening to their feast 
Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, 
And ravening famine left his ocean-cave 
To dwell with war, with us, and with despair. 
We met night three hours to the west of Patmos, 
And with night, tempest — 



MAHMUD. 

Cease ! 



Enter a Messenger. 



MESSENGER. 

Your Sublime Highness, 
That Christian hound, the Muscovite ambassador, 
Has left the city. If the rebel fleet 
Had anchor'd in the port, had victory 
Crown'd the Greek legions in the hippodrome, 
Panic were tamer. — Obedience and mutiny. 
Like giants in contention planet-struck 
Stand gazing on each other. There is peace 
In Stamboul. — 

MAHMUD. 

Is the grave not calmer still ? 
Its ruins shall be mine. 

HASSAN. 

Fear not the Russian ; . 
The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay 
Against the hunter. — Cunning, base, and cruel, 
He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, 
And must be paid for his reserve in blood. 
After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian 
That which thou canst not keep, his deserved portion 
Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields 
Rivers and seas, like that which we may win, 
But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves ! 

Enter Second Messenger. 

SECOND MESSENGER. 

Nauplia,-'mpolizzi, Mothon, Athens, 

Navarin, Artas, Mowenbasia, 

Corinth and Thebes are carried by assault ; 

And every Islamite who made his dogs 

Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves, 

Pass'd at the edge of the sword : the lust of blood 

Which made our warriors drunk, is quench'd in death, 

But like a fiery plague breaks out anew. 

In deeds which make the Christian cause look pale 

In its own light. The garrison of Patras 

Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope 

But from the Briton : at once slave and tyrant, 

His wishes still are weaker than his fears ; 

Or he would sell what faith may yet remain 

From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway : 

And if you buy him not, your treasury 

Is empty even of promises — his own coin. 

The freedman of a western poet chief* 

Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels. 

And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont j 

The aged Ali sits in Yanina, 

A crownless metaphor of empire ; 

His name, that shadow of his wither'd might, 

Holds our besieging army like a spell 

In prey to famine, pest, arid mutiny : 

He, bastion'd in his citadel, looks forth 

Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors 

The ruins of the city where he reign'd 

Childless and sceptreless. Tfie Greek has reap'd 

The costly harvest his own blood matured, 



* A Greek who had been Lord Byron's servant commanded 
the insurgents in Attica. This Greek, Lord Byron informs me, 
though a poet and an enthusiastic patriot, gave him rather th^ 
idea of a timid and unenterprising person. It appears that cir- 
cumstances make men what they are, and that we all contain 
the germ of a degree of degradation or of greatness, whose 
connexion with our character is determined by events. 
424 



HELLAS. 



177 



Not the sower, Ali — who has bought a truce 
From Ypsilanti with ten camel-loads 
Of Indian gold. 

Erder a Third Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

What more ? 

THIRD MESSENGER. 

The Christian tribes 
Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness 
Are in revolt ; — Damascus, Hems, Aleppo, 
Tremble ; — the Arab menaces Medina ; 
The Ethiop has intrench'd himself in Sennaar, 
And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employ 'd : 
Who denies homage, claims investiture 
As price of tardy aid. Persia demands 
The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians 
Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, 
Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins 
Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake spasm. 
Shake in the general fever. Through the city, 
Like birds before a storm the santons shriek, 
And prophecyings horrible and new 
Are heard among the crowd ; that sea of men 
Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. 
A Devise, learn'd in the koran, preaches 
That it is written how the sins of Islam 
Must raise up a destroyer even now. 
The Greeks expect a Savior from the west,* 
Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, 
But in the omnipresence of that spirit 
In whi,ch all live and are. Ominous signs 
Are blazon'd broadly on the noonday sky ; % 
One saw a red cross stamp'd upon the sun^ 
It has rain'd blood ; and monstrous births declare 
The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. 
The army encamp'd upon the Cydaris 
Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, 
And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, — 
•The shadows doubtless of the unborn time, 
Cast on the mirror of the night. While yet 
The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm 
Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. 
At the third watch the spirit of the plague 
Was heard abroad flapping among the tents : 
Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. 
The last news from the camp is, that a thousand 
Have sicken'd, and — 

Enter a Fourth Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow 
Of some untimely rumor, speak ! 

fourth messenger. 

One comes 
Fainting with toil, cover'd with foam and blood; 
He stood, he says, upon Clelonites' 
Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan 
Tinder the Briton's frown, and all their waters 
Then trembling in the splendor of the moon, 
When as the wandering clouds unveil'd or hid 
Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets 
Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer. 



* It is reported that this Messiah had arrived at a sea- 
port near Lacedaemon in an American brig. The asso- 
riation of names and ideas is irresistibly ludicrous, but 
the pre'*ilence of such a rumor strongly marks the state 
of popular enthusiasm in Greece. 
3D 



Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams, 
And smoke which strangled every infant wind 
That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. 
At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco 
Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds 
Over the sea-horizon, blotting out 
All objects — save that in the faint moon-glimpse 
He saw, or dream'd he saw the Turkish admiral 
And two the loftiest of our ships of war. 
With the bright image of the queen of heaven, 
Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed ; 
And the abhorred cross — 

Enter an Attendant. 

attendant. 

Your Sublime Highness, 
The Jew, who 

MAHMUD. 

Could not come more seasonably: 
Bid him attend. I '11 hear no more ! too long 
We gaze on danger through the mist of fear. 
And multiply upon our shatter'd hopes 
The images of ruin. Come what will ! 
To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps 
Set in our path to light us to the edge 
Through rough and smooth ; nor can we suffer aught 
Which he inflicts not in whose hand we are. [Exeunt. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Would I were the winged cloud 
Of a tempest swift and loud ! 

I would scorn 

The smile of mom 
And the wave where the moon-rise is bom ! 

I would leave 

The spirits of eve 
A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave 
From others' threads than mine ! 
Bask in the blue noon divine 

Who would, not I. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Whither to fly ? 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Where the rocks tjiat gird the iEgean 
Echo to the battle paean 

Of the free — 

I would flee 
A tempestuous herald of victory ! 

My golden rain 

For the Grecian slain 
Should mingle in tears with the bloody main ; 
And my solemn thunder-knell 
Should ring to the world the passing-bell 

Of tyranny ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Ah king! wilt thou chain' 
The rack and the rain ? 
Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurricane ? 

The storms are free. 

But we 



Slavery ! thou frost of the world's prime. 

Killing its flowers and leaving its thorns bare : 
Thy touch has stamp'd these limbs with crime. 
These brows thy branding garland bear ; 
But the free heart, the impassive soul, 
Scorn thy control ! 

425 



178 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SEMICHORUS I. 

Let there be light ! said Liberty ; 
And like sunrise from the sea, 
Athens arose !— Around her bom, 
Shone, like mountains in the morn, 
Glorious states ; — and are they now 
Ashes, wrecks, oblivion ? 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Go 

Where Thermae and Asopus swallow'd 
Persia, as the sand does foam, 

Deluge upon deluge foUow'd, 
Discord, Macedon, and Rome : 

And, lastly, thou ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Temples and towers, 
Citadels and marts, and they 

Who live and die there, have been ours, 
And may be thine, and must decay ; 

But Greece and her foundations are 

Built below the tide of war, 

Based on the crystalline sea 

Of thought and its eternity ; 
Her citizens' imperial spirits 

Rule the present from the past ; 
On all this world of men inherits 

Their seal is set. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Hear ye the blast, 
Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls 
From ruin her Titanian walls ? 
Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones 

Of Slavery ? Argos, Corinth, Crete, 
Hear, and from their mountain thrones 

The demons and the nymphs repeat 
The harmony. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

I hear ! I hear ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

The world's eyeless charioteer. 

Destiny, is hurrying by ! 
What faith is crush'd, what empire bleeds 
Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds ? 
What eagle-vidnged victory sits 
At her right hand ? what shadow flits 
Before ? what splendor rolls behind ? 

Ruin and Renovation cry. 
Who but we ? 

SEMICHORUS I. 

I hear ! I hear ! 
The hiss as of a rushing wind. 
The roar as of an ocean foaming. 
The thunder as of earthquake coming, 

I hear ! I hear ! 
The crash as of an empire falling, 
The shrieks as of a people calhng 
Mercy! Mercy! — How they thrill! 
Then a shout of «' Kill ! kill ! kill !" 
And then a small still voice, thus — 



SEMICHORUS II. 



For 



Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind, 
The foul cubs like their parents are. 

Their den is in their guilty mind. 

And Conscience feeds them with despair. 



SEMICHORUS I. 

In sacred Athens, near the fane 

Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood ; * 

Serve not the unknown God in vain, 
But pay that broken shrine again 

Love for hate, and tears for blood. 

» EnteT Mahmud and Ahasuerus. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou art a man, thou sagest, even as we — ' 

AHASUERUS. 

No more ! 

MAHMUD. 

But raised above thy fellow-men 
By thought, as I by power. 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou sayest so. 

MAHMUD. ' 

Thou art an adept in the difficult lore 

Of Greek and Frank philosophy ; thou numberest 

The flowers, and thou measurest the stars ; 

Thou severest element from element ; 

Thy spirit is present in the past, and sees 

The birth of this old world through all its cycles ,, 

Of desolation and of loveliness ; 

And when man was not, and how man became 

The monarch and the slave of this low sphere, 

And all its narrow circles — it is much. 

I honor thee, and would be what thou art 

Were I not what I am ; but the unborn hour. 

Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms. 

Who shall unveil ? Nor thou, nor I, nor any 

Mighty or wise. I apprehend not 

What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive 

That thou art no interpreter of dreams , 

Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, 

Can make the future present — let it come ! 

Moreover, thou disdainest us and ours ; 

Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. 

AHASUERUS. 

Disdain thee ? — not the worm beneath my feet ! 

The Fathomless has care for meaner things 

Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for 

those 
Who would be what they may not, or would seem 
That which they are not. Sultan ! talk no more 
Of thee and me, the future and the past; 
But look on that which cannot change — the one 
The unborn, and undying. Earth and ocean, 
Space, and the isles of life or light that gem 
The sapphire floods of interstellar air. 
This firmament pavilion'd upon chaos. 
With all its cressets of immortal fire. 
Whose outwalls, bastion'd impregnably 
Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them 
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds — this whole 
Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, 
With all the silent or tempestuous workings 
By which they have been, are, or cease to be. 
Is but a vision ; — all that it inherits 
Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams ; 
Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less 
The future and the past are idle shadows 
Of thought's eternal flight — they have no being ; 
Naught is but that it feels itself to be. 

MAHMUD. 

What meanest thou ? thy words stream like a tempest 
Of dazzling mist within my brain — they shake 
426 



HELLAS. 



179 



The earth on which I stand, and hang like night 
On Heaven above me. What can they avail ? 
They cast on all things, surest, brightest, best, 
Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. 

AHASUERUS. 

Mistake me not ! All is contain'd in each, 

Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup, 

Is that which has been or will be, to that 

Which is— the absent to the present. Thought 

Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, 

Reason, Imagination, cannot die ; 

They are what that which they regard appears, 

The stuff whence mutability can weave 

All that it hath dominion o'er, — worlds, worms. 

Empires, and superstitions. What has thought 

To do with time, or place, or circumstance ? 

Wouldst thou behold the future ? — ask and have! 

Knock and it shall be open'd — look, and lo ! 

The coming age is shadow'd on the past 

As on a glass. 

MAHMUD. 

Wild, wilder thoughts convulse 
My spirit — Did not Mahomet the Second 
Win Stamboul ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit 
The written fortunes of thy house and faith. 
Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to tell 
How what was born in blood must die. 



Have power on me ! I see — 



Thy words 



A far whisper — 
Terrible silence. 



AHASUERUS. 

What hearest thou ? 



AHASUERUS. 

What succeeds ? 



MAHMUD. 

The sound 
As of the asault of an imperial city. 
The hiss of inextinguishable fire. 
The roar of giant cannon ; — the earthquaking 
Fall of vast bastions and precipitous towers, 
The shock of crags shot from strange enginery, 
The clash of wheels, and clang of armed hoofs. 
And crash of brazen mail, as of the wreck 
Of adamantine mountains — the mad blast 
Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging steeds, 
And shrieks of women whose thrill jars the blood. 
And one sweet laugh, most horrible to hear, 
As of a joyous infant waked and plajang 
With its dead mother's breast ; and now more loud 



* For the vision of Mahmud of the taking of Constantinople 
in 1445, see Gibbon's Decline and J^all of the Roman Empire, 
vol. xii. p. 223. 

The manner of the invocation of the spirit of Mahomet the 
Second will be censured as overdrawn. I could easily have 
made the Jew a regular conjuror, and the phantom en ordinary 
ghost. 1 have preferred to represent the Jew as disclaiming all 
pretension, or even belief, in supernatural agency, and as 
tempting Mahmud to that state of mind in which ideas may be 
supposed to assume the force of sensations, through the con- 
fusion of thought with the objects of thought, and the excess 
of passion animating the creations of imagination. 

It is a sort of natural magic, susceptible of being exercised in 
a degree by any one who should have made himself master of 
the secret associations of another's thoughts. 



The mingled battle-cry — ha ! hear I not 
Ev TovTia viKrj. Allah, lUah, Allah ! 

AHASUERUS. I 

The sulphurous mist is raised — thou see'st — 

MAHMUD. 

A chasm, 

As of two mountains, in the wall of Stamboul ; 
And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, 
Like giants on the ruins of a world, 
Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust 
Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one 
Of regal port has cast himself beneath 
The stream of war. Another, proudly clad 
In golden arms, spurs a Tartarian barb 
Into the gap, and with his iron mace 
Directs the torrent of that tide of men. 
And seems — he is — Mahomet. 

AHASUERUS. 

What thou seest 
Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream ; 
A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that 
Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst behold 
How cities, on which empire sleeps enthroned. 
Bow their tower'd crests to mutability. 
Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou boldest, 
Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of power 
Ebbs to its depths. — Inheritor of glory. 
Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and nourish'd 
With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal throes 
Of that whose birth was but the same. The Past 
Now stands before thee like an Incarnation 
Of the To-come ; yet wouldst thou commune with 
That portion of thyself which was ere thou 
Didst start for this brief race whose crown is death , 
Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent passion 
Which call'd it from the uncreated deep. 
Yon cloud of war, with its tempestuous phantoms 
Of raging death ; and draw with mighty will 
The imperial shade hither. [Exit Ahasuerus. 



Approach ! 

PHANTOM. 

I come 
Thence whither thou must go! The grave is fitter 
To take the living, than give up the dead ; 
Yet has thy faith prevail'd, and I am here. 
The heavy fragments of the power which fell 
When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds, 
Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices 
Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose, 
Wailing for glory never to return. — 
A later empire nods in its decay ; 
The autumn of a greener faith is come, 
And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip 
The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built 
Her aery, while Dominion whelp'd below. 
The storm is in its branches, and the frost 
Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects 
Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil. 
Ruin on ruin : thou art slow, my son ; 
The anarchs of the world of darkness keep 
A throne for thee, round which thine empire lies 
Boundless and mute ; and for thy subjects thou. 
Like us, shall rule the ghosts of murder'd life, 
The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now- 
Mutinous passions, and conflicting fears, 
427 



180 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And hopes that sate themselves on dust and die ! 
Stript of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. 
Islam must fall, but we will reign together, 
Over its ruins in the world of death : — 
And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed 
Unfold itself even in the shape of that 
Which gathers birth in its decay. Woe ! woe ! 
To the weak people tangled in the grasp 
Of its last spasms. 

MAHMUD. 

Spirit, woe to all ! 
Woe to the wrong'd and the avenger! Woe 
To the destroyer, woe to the destroy'd ! 
Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver ! 
Woe to the oppress'd, and woe to the oppressor! 
Woe both to those that suffer and inflict ; 
Those who are born, and those who die ! But say, 
Imperial shadow of the thing I am, 
When, how, by whom. Destruction must accomplish 
Her consummation ? 

PHANTOM. 

Ask the cold pale Hour, 
Rich in reversion of impending death, 
When he shall fall upon whose ripe gray hairs 
Sit care, and sorrow, and infirmity — 
The weight which crime, whose wings are plumed 

with years, 
Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart 
Over the heads of men, under which burthen 
They bow themselves unto the grave : fond wretch ! 
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years 
To come, and how in hours of youth renew'd 
He will renew lost joys, and 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory! victory! 
\Tke phantom vanishes. 

MAHMUD. 

What sound of the importunate earth has broken 
My mighty trance ? 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory! victory! 

MAHMUD. 

Weak lightning before darkness ! poor faint smile 
Of dying Islam ! Voice which art the response 
Of hollow weakness I Do I wake and live ? 
Were there such things ? or may the unquiet brain, 
Vex'd by the wise mad talk of the old Jew, 
Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear ? 
It matters not ! — for naught we see or dream. 
Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth 
More than it gives or teaches. Come what may. 
The future must become the past, and I 
As they were to whom once this present hour, 
This gloomy crag of time to which I cling, 
Seem'd an Elysian isle of peace and joy 
Never to be attain'd. — I must rebuke 
This drunkenness of triumph ere it die. 
And dying, bring despair. — Victory ! — poor slaves ! 

[Exit Mahmud. 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Shout in the jubilee of death ! The Greeks 

Are as a brood of lions in the net. 

Round which the kingly hunters of the earth 

Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily food 

Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of death. 

From Thule to the girdle of the world. 

Come, feast! the board groans with the flesh of men — 



The cup is foaming with a nation's blood. 
Famine and thirst await : — eat, drink, and die ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, 
Salutes the risen sun, pursues the flying day ! 

I saw her ghastly as a tyrant's dream, 
Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, 

Beneath which earth and all her realms pavilion'd lay 
In visions of the dawning undelight. 
Who shall impede her flight ? 
Who rob her of her prey ? 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory ! victory ! Russia's famish'd eagles 
Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. 
Impale the remnant of the Greeks ! despoil ! 
Violate ! make their flesh cheaper than dust ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Thou voice which art 
The herald of the ill in splendor hid! 

Thou echo of the hollow heart 
Of monarch, bear me to thine abode 

When desolation flashes o'er a world destroy'd. 
Oh bear me to those isles of jagged cloud 

Which float like mountains on the earthquakes, 
'mid 
The momentary oceans of the lightning ; 

Or to some toppling promontory proud 

Of solid tempest, whose black pyramid, 
Riven, overhangs the founts intensely brightening 

Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire 

Before their waves expire. 
When Heaven and earth are light, and only light 
In the thunder-night ! 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory ! Victory ! Austria, Russia, England, 
And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France, 
Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs speak! 
Ho, there ! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes ! 
These chains are light, fitter for slaves and poisoners 
Than Greeks. Kill! plunder! bum! let none remain. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Alas for Liberty ! 
If numbers, wealth, or unfulfiUing years. 
Or fate, can quell the free ; 
Alas for Virtue ! when 
Torments, or contumely, or the sneers 

Of erring judging men 
Can break the heart where it abides. 
Alas ! if Love, whose smile makes this obscure more 
splendid. 
Can change, with its false times and tides. 
Like hope and terror — 
Alas for Love ! 
And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbefriended, 
If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mirror 
Before the dazzled eyes of error» 
Alas for thee ! Image of the above. 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn. 

Led the ten thousand from the limits of the mom 

Through many a hostile Anarchy ! 
At length they wept aloud and cried, "The sea ! the sea!'* 
Through exile, persecution, and despair, 

Rome was, and young Atlantis shall become 
The wonder, or the terror, or the tomb 
Of all whose step wakes power lull'd in her savage lair: 
But Greece was as a hermit child, 
428 



HELLAS. 



181 



Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were built 
To woman's growth by dreams so mild, 

She knew not pain or guilt ; 
And now, O Victory, blush ! and Empire, tremble, 

When ye desert the free ! 

If Greece must be 
A wreck, yet shall its fragments reassemble, 
And build themselves again impregnably 

In a diviner clime. 
To Amphionic music, on some cape sublime, 
Which frowns above the idle foam of Time. 



SEMICHORUS I. 



Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made ; 

Let the free possess the paradise they claim ; 
Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weigh'd 

With our ruin, our resistance, and our name ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, 
Our survivors be the shadows of their pride, 

Our adversity a dream to pass away — 
Their dishonor a remembrance to abide . 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Victory ! Victory ! The bought Briton sends 

The keys of ocean to the Islamite. 

Nor shall the blazon of the cross be veil'd, 

And British skill directing Othman might. 

Thunder-strike rebel victory. O keep holy 

This jubilee of xmrevenged blood ! 

Kill ! crush ! despoil ! Let not a Greek escape ! 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Darkness has dawn'd in the East 

On the noon of time : 
The death-birds descend to their feast, 

From the hungry clime. 
Let Freedom and Peace flee far 

To a sunnier strand, 
And follow Love's folding-star 

To the evening land ! 

SEMICHORUS II. 

The young moon has fed 
Her exhausted horn 
With the sunset's fire : 
The weak day is dead. 
But the night is not born ; 
And, like loveliness panting with wild desire. 
While it trembles with fear and delight, 
Hesperus flies from awakening might. 
And pants in its beauty and speed with light 
Fast flashing, soft, and bright. 
Thou beacon of love ! thou lamp of the free ! 

Guide us far, far away. 
To climes where now, veil'd by the ardor of day, 
Thou art hidden 
From waves on which weary Noon 
Faints in her summer swoon. 
Between kingless continents, sinless as Eden, 
Around mountains and islands inviolably 
Prankt on the sapphire sea. 

SEMICHORUS I. 

Through the sunset of hope, 
Like the shapes of a dream, 
What Paradise islands of glory gleam 

Beneath Heaven's cope. 
Their shadows more clear float by — 
The sound of their oceans, the light of their sky. 



The music and fragrance their solitudes breathe. 
Burst like morning on dreams, or like Heaven on death, 

Through the walls of our prison ; 

And Greece, which was dead, is arisen! 

CHORUS. 

The world's great age begins anew,* 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn : 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far; 
A new Peneus rolls its fountains 

Against the morning-star. 
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads, on a sunnier deep ; 
A loftier Argos cleaves the main, 

Fraught with a later prize ,• 
Another Orpheus sings again. 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for his native shore. 
O write no more the tale of Troy, 

If earth Death's scroll must be ! 
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 

Which dawns upon the free : 
Although a subtle sphinx renew 
Riddles of death Thebes never knew, 
Another Athens shall arise. 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 

The splendor of its prime ; 
And leave, if naught so bright may live, 
All earth can take or heaven can give. 
Saturn and Love their long repose t 

Shall burst, more wise and good 
Than all who fell, than one who rose, 

Than many un withstood — 
Not gold, nor blood, their altar dowers, 
But native tears, and symbol flowers. 
O cease ! must hate and death return ? 
Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past — 
O might it die or rest at last ! 



* The final chorus is indistinct and obscure as the event of 
the living drama whose arrival it foretells. Prophecies of wars, 
and rumor of wars, etc. may safely be made by poet or prophet 
in any age ; but to anticipate, however darkly, a period of re- 
generation and happiness, is a more hazardous exercise of the 
faculty which bards possess or feign. I will remind the reader, 
"magno nee proximus intervallo," of Isaiah and Virgil, whose 
ardent spirits overleaping the actual reign of evil which we en- 
dure and bewail, already saw the possible and perhaps ap 
proaching state of society in which the "lion shall lie down 
with the lamb," and "omnis feret omnia tellus." Let these 
great names be my authority and excuse. 

t Saturn and Love were among the deities of a real orimagi- 
aary state of innocence and happiness. All those who fell, or 
the Gods of Greece, Asia and Egypt, and the many unsubdued, 
or the monstrous objects of the idolatry of China, India, the 
Antarctic islands, and the native tribes of America, certainly 
have reigned over the understandings of men in conjunction or 
in succession, during periods in which all we know of evil has 
been in a state of portentous, and, until the revival of learning 
and the arts, perpetually increasing activity. The Grecian Goda 
seem indeed to have been personally more innocent, although 
it cannot be said that, as far as temperance and chastity are 
concerned, they gave very edifying examples. The horrors of 
the Mexican, the Peruvian, and the Indian superstitions are 
well known. 

429 



182 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



^mtUnnton^ ^otmu.^ 



In nobil sangue vita umile e queta, 
Ed in alto intelletto un puro core ; 
Frutto senile in sul g'ovenil fiore, 
£ in aspetto pensoso anima lieta. 

Petrarca. 



JULIAN AND MADDALO; 

A CONVERSATION. 



The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, 
The goats with the green leaves of budding spring, 
Are saturated not — nor Love with tears. 

Virgil's Qallus. 



Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family 
and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the 
society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnifi- 
cent palace in that city. He is a person of the most con- 
summate genius, and capable, if he would direct his ener- 
gies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his 
degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud : he 
derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind 
with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense 
apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His pas- 
sions and his powers are incomparably greater than those 
of other men, and instead of the latter having been em- 
ployed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent 
each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for 
want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. 
I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other 
word to express the concentred and impatient feelings 
which consume him ; but it is on his own hopes and af- 
fections only that he seems to trample, for in social life 
no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unas- 
suming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. 
His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication ; 
men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much ; 
and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his 
adventures in different countries. 

Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately 
attached to those philosophical notions which assert the 
power of man over his own mind, and the immense im- 
provements of which, by the extinction of certain moral 
superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. 
Without concealing the evil in the world, he is for ever 
speculating how good may be made superior. He is a 
complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy ; 
and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his 
taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these 
matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his 
heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess 
some good qualities. How far this is possible, the pious 
reader will determine. Julian is rather serious. 

Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems by 
his own account to have been disappointed in love. He 
was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when 
in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like 
many other stories of the same kind : the unconnected ex- 
clamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient 
comment for the text of every heart. 



I RODE one evening with Count Maddalo 
Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow 
Of Adria towards Venice : a bare strand 
Of hillocks, heap'd from ever-shifting sand, 



♦ The greater part of these pieces first appeared after 
their author's death, in a volume of Poems, edited by Mrs. 
Shelley, whose interesting Preface will be found entire in 
the biographical memoir prefixed to this edition.— Editor. 



Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, 
Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds. 
Is this ; an uninhabited sea-side, 
Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, 
Abandons ; and no other object breaks 
The waste, but one dwarf-tree and some few stakes 
Broken and unrepair'd, and the tide makes 
A narrow space of level sand thereon. 
Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down 
This ride was my delight. I love all waste 
And solitary places ; where we taste 
The pleasure of believing what we see 
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be : 
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
More barren than its billows ; and yet more 
Than all, with a remember 'd friend I love 
To ride as then I rode ; — for the winds drove 
The living spray along the sunny air 
Into our faces ; the blue heavens were bare, 
Stripp'd to their depths by the awakening north ; 
And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forthy 
Harmonizing with solitude, and sent 
Into our hearts aerial merriment. 
So, as we rode, we talk'd ; and the swift thought, 
Winging itself with laughter, linger'd not. 
But flew from brain to brain, — such glee was ours. 
Charged with light memories of remember'd hours, 
None slow enough for sadness : till we came 
Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. 
This day had been cheerful but cold, and now 
The sun was sinking, and the wind also. 
Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be 
Talk interrupted with such raillery 
As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 
The thoughts it would extinguish: — 'twas forlom, 
Yet pleasing; such as once, so poets tell, 
The devils held within the dales of hell. 
Concerning God, free-will, and destiny. 
Of all that Earth has been, or yet may be. 
All that vain men imagine or believe, 
Or hope can paint, or suflfering can achieve. 
We descanted ; and I (for ever still 
Is it not vdse to make the best of ill ?) 
Argued against despondency ; but pride 
Made my companion take the darker side. 
The sense that he was greater than his kind 
Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind 
By gazing on its own exceeding light. 
Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight 
Over the horizon of the mountains — Oh ! 
How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 
Of heaven descends upon a land like thee, 
Thou paradise of exiles, Italy ! 
Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers 
Of cities they encircle ! — It was ours 
To stand on thee, beholding it : and then, 
Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men 
430 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



183 



Were waiting for us with the gondola. 

As those who pause on some dehghtful way, 

Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood, 

Looking upon the evening and the flood, 

Which lay between the city and the shore, 

Paved with the image of the sky : the hoar 

And aery Alps, towards the north, appear'd, 

Through mist, a heaven-sustaining bulwark, rear'd 

Between the east and west ; and half the sky 

Was roof 'd with clouds of rich emblazonry, 

Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew 

Down the steep west into a wondrous hue 

Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent 

Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent 

Among the many-folded hills — they were 

Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, 

As seen from Lido through the harbor piles. 

The likeness of a clump of peaked isles — 

And then, as if the earth and sea had been 

Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen 

Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame, 

Around the vaporous sun, from which there came 

The inmost purple spirit of light, and made 

Their very peaks transparent. " Ere it fade," 

Said my companion. " I will show you soon 

A better station." So, o'er the lagune 

We glided ; and from that funereal bark 

I lean'd, and saw the city, and could mark 

How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, 

Its temples and its palaces did seem 

Like fabrics of enchantment piled to heav'n. 

I was about to speak, when — " We are even 

Now at the point I meant," said Maddalo, 

And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 

" Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well 

If you hear not a deep and heavy bell." 

I look'd, and saw between us and the sun 

A building on an island, such an one 

As age to age might add, for uses vile, — 

A windowless, deform'd and dreary pile ; 

And on the top an open tower, where hung 

A bell, which in the radiance sway'd and swung^ — 

We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue : 

The broad sun sank behind it, and it toll'd 

In strong and black relief — " What we behold 

Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower ;" — 

Said Maddalo, " and even at this hour, 

Those who may cross the water hear that bell. 

Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, 

To vespers." — " As much skill as need to pray, 

In thanks or hope for their dark lot, have they, 

To their stern Maker," I replied. — " O, ho ! 

You talk as in years past," said Maddalo. 

" 'Tis strange men change not. You were ever still 

Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, 

A wolf for the meek lambs : if you can't swim. 

Beware of providence." I look'd on him. 

But the gay smile had faded from his eye. 

" And such," he cried " is our mortality ; 

And this must be the emblem and the sign 

Of what should be eternal and divine ; 

And like that black and dreary bell, the soul 

Hung in a heav'n-illumined tower, must toll 

Our thoughts and our desires to meet below 

Round the rent heart, and pray — as madmen do ; 



For what ? they know not, till the night of death. 
As sunset that strange vision, severeth 
Our memory from itself, and us from all 
We sought, and yet were baffled." I recall 
The sense of what he said, although I mar 
The force of his expressions. The broad star 
Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill ; 
And the black bell became invisible ; 
And the red tower look'd gray ; and all between, 
The churches, ships, and palaces, were seen 
Huddled in gloom ; into the purple sea 
The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. 
We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola 
Convey'd me to my lodging by the way. 

The following mom was rainy, cold and dim : 
Ere Maddalo arose I call'd on him. 
And whilst I waited, with his child I play'd ; 
A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made ; 
A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being ; 
Graceful without design, and unforeseeing ; 
With eyes — Oh ! speak not of her eyes ! which seem 
Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam 
With such deep meaning as we never see 
But in the human countenance. With me 
She was a special favorite : I had nursed 
Her fine and feeble limbs, when she came first 
To this bleak world ; and she yet seem'd to know. 
On second sight, her ancient playfellow. 
Less changed than she was by six months or so. 
For, after her first shyness was worn out. 
We sate there, rolling billiard-balls about. 
When the Count enter'd. Salutations past : 
" The words you spoke last night might well have cast 
A darkness on my spirit : — if man be 
The passive thing you say, I should not see 
Much harm in the reUgions and old saws 
(Though / may never own such leaden laws) 
Which break a teachless nature to the yoke : 
Mine is another faith." — Thus much I spoke. 
And, noting he replied not, added — " See 
This lovely child ; blithe, innocent and free ; 
She spends a happy time, with little care ; 
While we to such sick thoughts subjected are. 
As came on you last night. It is our will 
Which thus enchains us to permitted ill. 
We might be otherwise ; we might be all 
We dream of, happy, high, majestical. 
Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek, 
But in our minds ? And, if we were not Aveak, 
Should we be less in deed than in desire ? " — 
— " Ay, if we were not weak, — and we aspire. 
How vainly ! to be strong," said Maddalo . 
" You talk Utopia" — 

" It remains to know," 
I then rejoin'd, " and those who try, may find 
How strong the chains are which our spirit bind : 
Brittle perchance as straw. We are assured 
Much may be conquer'd, much may be endured, 
Of what degrades and crushes us. We know 
That we have power over ourselves to do 
And suffer — what, we know not till we try ; 
But something nobler than to live and die: 
So taught the kings of old philosophy, 
431 



184 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Who reign'd before religion made men blind ; 
And those who suffer with their suffering kind, 
Yet feel this faith, religion." 

" My dear friend," 
Said Maddalo, " my judgment will not bend 
To your opinion, though I think you might 
Make such a system refutation-tight, 
As far as words go. I knew one like you, 
Who to this city came some months ago, 
With whom I argued in this sort, — and he 
Is now gone mad — and so he answer'd me. 
Poor fellow ! — But if you would like to go. 
We '11 visit him, and his wild talk will show 
How vain are such aspiring theories." — 

" I hope to prove the induction otherwise, 
And that a want of that true theory still, 
Which seeks a soul of goodness in things ill. 
Or in himself or others, has thus bow'd 
His being : — there are some by nature proud, 
Who, patient in all else, demand but this — 
To love and be beloved with gentleness: — 
And being scorn'd, what wonder if they die 
Some living death ? This is not destiny, 
But man's own wilful ill." — 

As thus I spoke, 
Servants announced the gondola, and we 
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea 
Sail'd to the island where the mad-house stands. 
We disembark'd. The clap of tortured hands, 
Fierce yells, and bowlings, and lamentings keen. 
And laughter where complaint had merrier been, 
Accosted us. We climb'd the oozy stairs 
Into an old court-yard. I heard on high. 
Then, fragments of most touching melody. 
But looking up saw not the singer there. — 
Through the black bars in the tempestuous air 
I saw, like weeds on a wreck'd palace growing. 
Long tangled locks flung wildly forth and flowing. 
Of those who on a sudden were beguiled 
Into strange silence, and look'd forth and smiled, 
Hearing sweet sounds. Then I : — - 

" Methinks there were 
A cure of these with patience and kind care, 
If music can thus move. But what is he. 
Whom we seek here ? " 

" Of his sad history 
I know but this," said Maddalo : " he came 
To Venice a dejected man, and fame 
Said he was wealthy, or he had been so. 
Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe ; 
But he was ever talking in such sort 
As you do, — but more sadly ; — ^he seem'd hurt, 
Even as a man with his peculiar wrong. 
To hear but of the oppression of the strong. 
Or those absurd deceits (I think with you 
In some respects, you know) which carry through 
The excellent impostors of this earth 
When they outface detection. He had worth, 
Poor fellow ! but a humorist in his way." — 



— " Alas ! what drove him mad ? " 



I cannot say : 



A lady came with him from France, and when 

She left him and return'd, he wander'd then 

About yon lonely isles of desert sand, 

Till he grew wild. He had no cash or land 

Remaining : — the police had brought him here — 

Some fancy took him, and he would not bear 

Removal, so I fitted up for him 

Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim ; 

And sent him busts, and books, and urns for flowers, 

Which had adorn'd his life in happier hours. 

And instruments of music. You may guess 

A stranger could do little more or less 

For one so gentle and unfortunate — 

And those are his sweet strains which charm the 

weight 
From madmen's chains, and make this hell appear 
A heaven of sacred silence, hush'd to hear." 



" Nay, this was kind of you,- 
As the world says." 



-he had no claim. 



" None but the very same 
Which I on all mankind, were I, as he, 
Fall'n to such deep reverse. His melody 
Is interrupted now ; we hear the din 
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin 
Let us now visit him : after this strain, 
He ever communes with himself again, 
And sees and hears not any." 

Having said 
These words, we call'd the keeper, and he led 
To an apartment opening on the sea. — 
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully 
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined 
One with the other ; and the ooze and wind 
Rush'd through an open casement, and did sway 
His hair, and starr'd it with the brackish spray ; 
His head was leaning on a music-book. 
And he was muttering ; and his lean limbs shook ; 
His lips were press'd against a folded leaf 
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief 
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart, 
As one who wrought from his own fervjjd heart 
The eloquence of passion : soon he raised 
His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed. 
And spoke, — sometimes as one who wrote, and thought 
His words might move some heart that heeded not, 
If sent to distant lands ; — and then as one 
Reproaching deeds never to be undone. 
With wondering self-compassion ; — then his speech 
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each 
Unmodulated and expressionless, — 
But that from one jarr'd accent you might guess 
It was despair made them so uniform : 
And all the while the loud and gusty storm 
Hiss'd through the window, and we stood behind. 
Stealing his accents from the envious wind. 
Unseen. I yet remember what he said 
Distinctly, such impression his words made. 

" Month after month," he cried, " to bear this load. 
And, as a jade urged by the whip and goad. 
To drag hfe on — which hke a heavy chain 
Lengthens behind with many a link of pain, 
And not to speak my grief— O, not to dare 
To give a human voice to my despair ; 
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185 



But live, and move, and, wretched thing ! smile on, 
As if I never went aside to groan. 
And wear this mask of falsehood even to those 
Who are most dear — not for my own repose — 
Alas ! no scorn, or pain, or hate, could be 
So heavy as that falsehood is to me — 
But that I cannot bear more alter'd faces 
Than needs must be, more changed and cold em- 
braces. 
More misery, disappointment, and mistrust 
To own me for their father. Would the dust 
Were cover'd in upon my body now ! 
That the life ceased to toil within my brow ! 
And then these thoughts would at the last be fled : 
Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead. 



" What Power delights to torture us ? I know 
That to myself I do not wholly owe 
What now I suffer, though in part I may. 
Alas ! none strew'd fresh flowers upon the way, 
Where, wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain, 
My shadow, which will leave me not again. 
If I have err'd, there was no joy in error, 
But pain, and insult, and unrest, and terror; 
I have not, as some do, bought penitence 
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet oflfence ; 
For then if love, and tenderness, and truth 
Had overlived Hope's momentary youth. 
My creed should have redeem'd me from repenting ; 
But lothed scorn and outrage unrelenting 
Met love excited by far oth^r seeming, 
Until the end was gain'd : — as one from dreaming. 
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state 
Such as it is. — 



" O, thou, my spirit's mat»! 
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, 
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes, 
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see. 
My secret groans must be unheard by thee ; 
Thou wouldst weep tears, bitter as blood, to know 
Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe. 
Ye few by whom my nature has been weigh'd 
In friendship, let me not that name degrade, 
By placing on your hearts the secret load 
Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road 
To peace, and that is truth, which follow ye ! 
Love sometimes leads astray to misery. 
Yet think not, though subdued (and I may well 
Say that I am subdued) — that the full hell 
Within me would infect the untainted breast 
Of sacred nature with its own unrest ; 
As some perverted beings think to find 
In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 
Which scorn or hate hath wounded. — O, how vain ! 
The dagger heals not, but may rend again. 
Believe that I am ever still the same 
In creed as in resolve : and what may tame 
My heart, must leave the understanding free. 
Or all would sink under this agony. — 
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar eye. 
Or with my silence sanction tyranny, 
Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain 
In any madness which the world calls gain ; 
Ambition, or revenge, or thoughts as stern 
As those which make me what I am, or turn 
3E 



To avarice or misanthropy or lust. 
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust ! 
Till then the dungeon may demand its prey. 
And Poverty and Shame may meet and say, 
Halting beside me in the public way, — 
' That love-devoted youth is ours : let 's sit 
Beside him : he may live some six months yet.' — 
Or the red scaflR)ld, as our country bends, 
May ask some willing victim ; or ye, friends ! 
May fall under some sorrow, which this heart 
Or hand may share, or vanquish, or avert ; 
I am prepared, in truth, with no proud joy. 
To do or suflfer aught, as when a boy 
I did devote to justice, and to love. 
My nature, worthless now. 

" I must remove 
A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn aside ! 
O ! pallid as Death's dedicated bride. 
Thou mockery which art sitting by my side. 
Am I not wan like thee ? At the grave's call 
I haste, invited to thy wedding-hall, 
To meet the ghastly paramour, for whom 
Thou hast deserted me, — and made the tomb 
Thy bridal bed. But I beside thy feet 
Will lie, and watch ye from my winding-sheet 

Thus — wide awake though dead Yet stay, O, stay! 

Go not so soon — I know not what I say — 
Hear but my reasons — I am mad, I fear. 
My fancy is o'erwrought — thou art not here. 

Pale art thou, 'tis most true but thou art gone — 

Thy work is finish'd ; I am left alone. 
* ******* 

" Nay, was it I who woo'd thee to this breast. 

Which like a serpent thou envenomest 

As in repayment of the warmth it lent ? 

Didst thou not seek me for thine own content ? 

Did not thy love awaken mine ? I thought 

That thou wert she who said ' You kiss me not 

Ever ; I fear you do not love me now.' 

In truth I loved even to my overthrow 

Her, who would fain forget these words ; but they 

Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. 



" You say that I am proud ; that when I speak. 
My lip is tortured with the wrongs, which break 
The spirit it expresses. — Never one 
Humbled himself before, as I have done ! 
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread 
Turns, though it wound not — then, with prostrate 

head, 
Sinks in the dust, and writhes like me — and dies : 

No : — wears a living death of agonies ! 

As the slow shadows of the pointed grass 
Mark the eternal periods, its pangs pass. 
Slow, ever-moving, making moments be 
As mine seem, — each an immortality ! 
******** 

" That you had never seen me ! never heard 
My voice ! and more than all, had ne'er endured 
The deep pollution of my lothed embrace ! 
That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face ! 
That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out 
The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root 
433 



186 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With mine own quivering fingers ! so that ne'er 

Our hearts had for a moment mingled there, 

To disunite in horror ! These were not 

With thee like some suppress'd and hideous thought, 

Which flits athwart our musings, but can find 

No rest within a pure and gentle mind — 

Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word, 

And searedst my memory o'er them, — for I heard 

And can forget not — they were minister'd. 

One after one, those curses. Mix them up 

Like self-destroying poisons in one cup ; 

And ihey will make one blessing, which thou ne'er 

Didst imprecate for on me death! 

'• It were 
A cruel punishment for one most cruel, 
If such can love, to make that love the fuel 
Of the mind's hell — hate, scorn, remorse, despair : 
But me, whose heart a stranger's tear might wear. 
As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone ; 
Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan 
For woes which others hear not ; and could see 
The absent with the glass of phantasy. 
And near the poor and trampled sit and weep, 
Following the captive to his dungeon deep ; 
Me, who am as a nerve o'er which do creep 
The else unfelt oppressions of this earth. 
And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, 
When all beside was cold : — that thou on me 
Should rain these plagues of blistering agony — 
Such curses are from lips once eloquent 
With love's too partial praise ! Let none relent 
Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name 
Henceforth, if an example for the same 
They seek : — for thou on me look'dst so and so, 
And didst speak thus and thus. I live to show 
How much men bear and die not. 



" Thou wilt tell, 
With the grimace of hate, how horrible 
It was to meet my love when thine grew less ; 
Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address 

Such features to love's work ^This taunt, though 

true 
(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue 
Bestow'd on me her choicest workmanship), 
Shall not be thy defence : for since thy life 
Met mine first, years long past, — since thine eye kin- 
dled 
With soft fire under mine, — I have not dvdndled, 
Nor changed in mind, or body, or in aught. 
But as love changes what it loveth not 
After long years and many trials. 

" How vain 
Are words ! I thought never to speak again, 
Not even in secret, not to my own heart — 
But from my lips the unwilling accents start, 
And from my pen the words flow as I write. 
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears — my sight 
Is dim to see that character'd in vain. 
On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain 
And eats into it, blotting all things fair. 
And wise and good, which time had written there. 
Those who inflict must suflfer, for they see 
The work of their ovm hearts, and that must be 



Our chastisement or recompense. — O, child ! 
I would that thine were like to be more mild. 
For both our wretched sakes, — for thine the most, 
Who feel'st already all that thou hast lost, 
Without the power to wish it thine again. 
And, as slow years pass, a funereal train. 
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend 
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend 
No thought on my dead memory ? 
* *•* * * * * * » 



" Alas, love ! 
Fear me not: against thee I'd not move 
A finger in despite. Do I not live 
That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve ? 
I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate ; 
And, that thy lot may be less desolate 
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain 
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain. 
Then — when thou speakest of me — never say, 
' He could forgive not' — Here I cast away 
All human passions, all revenge, all pride ; 
I think, speak, act no ill ; I do but hide 
Under these words, like embers, every spark 
Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark 
The grave is yawning : — as its roof shall cover 
My limbs with dust and worms, under and over. 
So let oblivion hide this grief — The air 
Closes upon my accents, as despair 
Upon my heart — let death upon despair!" 



He ceased, and overcome, leant back awhile; 
Then rising, with a melancholy smile. 
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept 
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept. 
And mutter'd some familiar name, and we 
Wept without shame in his society. 
I think I never was impress'd so much ; 
The man who were not, must have lack'd a touch 
Of human nature. — Then we linger'd not. 
Although our argument was quite forgot ; 
But, calling the attendants, went to dine 
At Maddalo's: — yet neither cheer nor wine 
Could give us spirits, for we talk'd of him. 
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim. 
And we agreed it was some dreadful ill 
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable, 
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love 
Of one vow'd deeply which he dream'd not of; 
For whose sake he, it seem'd, had fix'd a blot 
Of falsehood in his mind, which flourish'd not 
But in the light of all-beholding truth ; 
And having stamp'd this canker on his youth. 
She had abandon'd him : — and how much more 
Might be his woe, we guess'd not : — he had store 
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess 
From his nice habits and his gentleness: 
These now were lost — it were a grief indeed 
If he had changed one unsustaining reed 
For all that such a man might else adorn. 
The colors of his mind seem'd yet unworn ; 
For the wild language of his grief was high — 
Such as in measure were call'd poetry. 
And I remember one remark, which then 
Maddalo made : he said — " Most wretched men 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



187 



Are cradled into poetry by wrong : 

They learn in suffering what they teach in song." 

If I had been an unconnected man, 
r, from this moment, should have form'd some plan 
Never to leave sweet Venice : for to me 
It was delight to ride by the lone sea : 
And then the town is silent — one may write, 
Or read in gondolas by day or night, 
Having the little brazen lamp alight, 
Unseen, uninterrupted : — books are there, 
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair 
Which were twin-born with poetry ; — and all 
We seek in towns, with little to recall 
Regret for the green country : — I might sit 
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit 
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night. 
And make me know myself: — and the fire-light 
Would flash upon our faces, till the day 
Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay. 
But I had friends in London too. The chief 
Attraction here was that I sought relief 
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought 
Within me — 't was perhaps an idle thought, 
But I imagined that if, day by day, 
I watched him, and seldom went away, 
And studied all the beatings of his heart 
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art 
For their own good, and could by patience find 
An entrance to the caverns of his mind, 
I might reclaim him from his dark estate. 
In friendships I had been most fortunate, 
Yet never saw I one whom I would call 
More willingly my friend ; — and this was all 
Accomplish'd not ; — such dreams of baseless gobd 
Oft come and go, in crowds or solitude. 
And leave no trace ! — but what I now design'd. 
Made, for long years, impression on my mind. 
— The following morning, urged by my affairs, 
I left bright Venice. — 

After many years. 
And many changes, I return'd ; the name 
Of Venice, and its aspect, were the same ; 
But Maddalo was travelling, far away. 
Among the mountains of Armenia. 
His dog was dead : his child had now become 
A woman, such as it has been my doom 
To meet with few ; a wonder of this earth, 
Where there is little of transcendent worth, — 
Like one of Shakspeare's women. Kindly she, 
And with a manner beyond courtesy. 
Received her father's friend ; and, when I ask'd 
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory task'd. 
And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale : 
" That the poor sufferer's health began to fail, 
Two years from my departure ; but that then 
The lady, who had left him, came again. 
Her mien had been imperious, but she now 
Look'd meek ; perhaps remorse had brought her low. 
Her coming made him better ; and they stay'd 
Together at my father's,— for I play'd. 
As [ remember, with the lady's shawl ; 
I might be six years old : — But, after all, 
She left him."— 

« Why, her heart must have been tough : 
How did it end?" 



" And was not this enough ? 
They met, they parted." 

" Child, is there no more ? " 

" Something within that interval, which bore 
The stamp of why they parted, how they met ; 
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet 
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remember'd 

tears, 
Ask me no more ; but let the silent years 
Be closed and cered over their memory 
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie." 

I urged and question'd still : she told me how 
All happen'd — but the cold world shall not know. 
Rome, May, 1819. 



THE WITCH OF ATLAS. 



Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth 
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, 

Error and Truth, had hunted from the earth 

All those bright natures which adorn'd its prime, 

And left us nothing to beUeve in, worth 
The pains of putting into learned rhyme, 

A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain, 

Within a cavern by a secret fountain. 

IL 

Her mother was one of the Atlantides : 
The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden 

In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas 
So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden 

In the warm shadow of her loveliness ; — 

He kiss'd her with his beams, and made all golder 

The chamber of gray rock in which she lay — 

She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. 

in. 

'Tis said, she was first changed into a vapor. 
And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit. 

Like splendor-winged moths about a taper. 
Round the red west when the sun dies in it : 

And then into a meteor, such as capeT 
On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit ; 

Then, into one of those mysterious stars 

WTiich hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. 

IV. 
Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent 

Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden 
With that bright sign the billows to indent 

The sea-deserted sand : like children chidden. 
At her command they ever came and went : — 

Since in that cave a dewy splendor hidden. 
Took shape and motion : with the living form 
Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. 



A lovely lady garmented in light 

From her own beauty — deep her eyes, as are 
Two openings of unfathomable night 

Seen through a tempest-cloven roof — her hair 
Dark— the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, 

Picturing her form ! hex soft smiles shone afar, 
And her low voice was heard like love, and drew 
All living things towards this wonder new. 
435 



188 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



VI. 

And first the spotted cameleopard came, 
And then the wise and fearless elephant ; 

Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame 
Of his own volumes inter vol ved ; — all gaunt 

And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. 
They drank before her at her sacred fount, 

And every beast of beating heart grew bold. 

Such gentleness and power even to behold. 

VII. 

The brinded lioness led forth her young, 

That she might teach them how they should forego 

Their inborn thirst of death ; the pard unstrung 
His sinews at her feet, and sought to know. 

With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue, 
How he might be as gentle as the doe. 

The magic circle of her voice and eyes 

All savage natures did imparadise. 

VIII. 

And old Silenus, shaking a green stick 
Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew 

Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick 
Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew : 

And Driope and Faunus follow'd quick, 

Teasing the God to sing them something new, 

Till in this cave they found the lady lone, 

Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. 

IX. 

And Universal Pan, 'tis said, was there. 

And though none saw him, — through the adamant 

Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air. 
And through those living spirits, like a want 

He past out of his everlasting lair 

Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant. 

And felt that wondrous lady all alone, — 

And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. 



And every nymph of stream and spreading tree. 
And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks. 

Who drives her white waves over the green sea ; 
And Ocean, with the brine on his gray locks. 

And quaint Priapus with his company 

All came, much wondering how the enwombed 
rocks 

Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth ; — 

Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. 

XL 

The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, 
And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant — 

These spirits shook within them, as a flame 
Stirr'd by the air under a cavern gaunt : 

Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name. 
Centaurs and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt 

Wet clefts, — and lumps neither alive nor dead, 

Dog-headed, bosom-eyed and bird-footed. 

XII. 

For she was beautiful : her beauty made 

The bright world dim, and every thing beside 

Seem'd like the fleeting image of a shade : 
No thought of Jiving spirit could abide, 

Which to her looks had ever been betray'd, 
On any object in the world so wide. 

On any hope within the circling skies. 

But on her form, and in her inmost eyes 



XIII. 
Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle 

And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three 
Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle 

The clouds and waves and mountains with, and 
she 
As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle 

In the belated moon, wound skilfully ; 
And with these threads a subtle veil she wove — 
A shadow for the splendor of her love. 

XIV. 
The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling 

Were stored with magic treasures — sounds of air 
Which had the power all spirits of compelling. 

Folded in cells of crystal silence there ; 
Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling 

Will never die — yet ere we are aware. 
The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, 
And the regret they leave remains alone. 

XV. 
And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, 

Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis ; 
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint 

With the soft burthen of intensest bliss ; 
It is its work to bear to many a saint 

Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is. 
Even Love's — and othe^-s white, green, gray, and 

black, 
And of all shapes — and each was at her beck. 

XVI. 

And odors in a kind of aviary 

Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, 

Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy 

Had woven irom dew-beams while the moon yet 
slept; 

As bats at the wired window of a dairy. 

They beat their vans ; and each was an adept. 

When loosed and mission'd, making wings of winds, 

To stir sweet thoughts or sad in destined minds. 

XVII. 
And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might 

Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep. 
And change eternal death into a night 

Of glorious dreams — or if eyes needs must weep 
Could make their tears all wonder and delight. 

She in her crystal vials did closely keep : 
If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said 
The living were not envied of the dead. 

XVIII. 
Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, 

The works of some Saturnian Archimage, 
Which taught the expiations at whose price 

Men from the Gods might win that happy age 
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice ; 

And which might quench the earth-consuming rage 
Of gold and blood — till men should live and move 
Harmonious as the sacred stars above. 

XIX. 

And how all things that seem untamable. 
Not to be check'd and not to be confined. 

Obey the spells of wisdom's wizard skill : 

Time, Earth and Fire — the Ocean and the Wind, 

And all their shapes — and man's imperial will ; 
And other scrolls whose writings did unbind 

The inmost lore of Love — let the profane 

Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



189 



XX. 

And wondrous works of substances unknown, 
To which the enchantment of her father's power 

Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, 
Were heap'd in the recesses of her bower ; 

Carved lamps and chalices, and phials which shone 
In their own golden beams — each like a flower, 

Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light 

Under a cypress in a starless night. 

XXI. 

At first she lived alone in this wild home. 
And her own thoughts were each a minister, 

Clothing themselves or with the ocean-foam, 
Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, 

To work whatever purposes might come 
Into her mind ; such power her mighty Sire 

Had girt them with, whether to fly or run. 

Through all the regions which he shines upon. 

XXII. 

The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, 

Oreads and Naiads with long weedy locks, 

Oflfer'd to do her bidding through the seas. 
Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, 

And far beneath the matted roots of trees, 
And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, 

So they might live for ever in the light 

Of her sweet presence — each a satellite. 

XXIII. 
"This may not be," the wizard maid replied; 

" The fountains where the Naiades bedew 
Their shining hair, at length are drain'd and dried ; 

The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew 
Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide ; 

The boundless ocean, like a drop of dew, 
Will be consumed — the stubborn centre must 
Be scatter'd, like a cloud of summer dust. 

XXIV. 
" And ye with them will perish one by one : 

If I must sigh to think that this shall be, 
If I must weep when the surviving Sun 

Shall smile on your decay — Oh, ask not me 
To love you till your httle race is run ; 

I cannot die as ye must — over me 
Your leaves shall glance — the streams in which ye 

dwell 
Shall be my paths henceforth, and so, farewell!" 

XXV. 
She spoke and wept : the dark and azure well 

Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, 
And every little circlet where they fell. 

Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres 
And intertangled lines of hght ! — a knell 

Of sobbing voices came upon her ears 
From those departing Forms, o'er the serene 
Of the white streams and of the forest green. 

XXVI. 

All day the wizard lady sat aloof. 

Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity 

Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; 
Or broidering the pictured poesy 

Of some high tale upon her growing woof. 

Which the sweet splendor of her smiles could dye 

In hues outshining- Heaven — and ever she 

Added some grace to the wrought poesy. 



XXVII. 
While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece 

Of sandal-wood, rare gums and cinnamon ; 
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is. 

Each flame of it is as a precious stone 
Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this 

Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. 
The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand 
She held a woof that dimm'd the burning brand. 

XXVIII. 

This lady never slept, but lay in trance 
All night within the fountain — as in sleep. 

Its emerald crags glow'd in her beauty's glance : 
Through the green splendor of the water deep 

She saw the constellations reel and dance 
Like fire-flies — and withal did ever keep 

The tenor of her contemplations calm. 

With open eyes, closed feet and folded palm. 

XXIX. 

And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended 
From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, 

She past at dewfall to a space extended, 
Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel 

Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended. 
There yawn'd an inextinguishable well 

Of crimson fire, full even to the brim, 

And overflowing all the margin trim. 

XXX. 

Within the which she lay when the fierce war 
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor 

In many a mimic moon and bearded star. 

O'er woods and lawns — the serpent heard it flicker 

In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar — 

And when the windless snow descended thicker 

Than autumn leaves, she watch'd it as it came 

Melt on the surface of the level flame. 

XXXI. 

She had a Boat which some say Vulcan wrought 
For Venus, as the chariot of her star ; 

But it was found too feeble to be fraught 
With all the ardors in that sphere which are, 

And so she sold it, and Apollo bought, 
And gave it to this daughter: from a car 

Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat 

Which ever upon mortal stream did float 

XXXII. 

And others say, that when but three hours old, 
The first-born Love out of his cradle leapt. 

And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, 
And like a horticultural adept. 

Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it up in mould, 
And sow'd it in his mother's star, and kept 

Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, 

And with his wings faiuiing it as it grew. 

XXXIII. 
The plant grew strong and green — the snowy flower 

Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began 
To turn the light and dew by inward power 

To its own substance ; woven tracery ran 
Of light firm texture, ribb'd and branching, o'er 

The solid rind, like a leafs veined fan. 
Of which Love scoop'd this boat, and with soft motion 
1 Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. 
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XXXIV. 

This boat she raoor'd upon her fount, and lit 

A Hving spirit within all its frame, 
Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. 

Couch'd on the fountain like a panther tame, 
One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit ; 

Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame. 
Or on blind Homer's heart a winged thought, — 
In joyous expectation lay the boat. 

XXXV. 

Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow 
Together, tempering the repugnant mass 

With liquid love — all things together grow 
Through which the harmony of love can pass ; 

And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow 
A living Image, which did far surpass 

In beauty that bright shape of vital stone 

Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. 

XXXVI. 

A sexless thing it was, and in its growth 
It seem'd to have developed no defect 

Of either sex, yet all the grace of both, — 

In gentleness and strength its limbs were deck'd ; 

The bosom lightly swell'd with its full youth, 
The countenance was such as might select 

Some artist that his skill should never die, 

Imaging forth such perfect purity. 

XXXVII. 
From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings. 

Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, 
Tipt with the speed of liquid lightnings, 

Dyed in the odors of the atmosphere : 
She led her creature to the boiling springs 

Where the light boat was moor'd, — and said — 
" Sit here ! " 
And pointed to the prow, and took her seat 
Beside the rudder with opposing feet 

XXXVIII. 

And down the streams which clove those mountains 
vast 

Around their inland islets, and amid 
The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast 

Darkness and odors, and a pleasure hid 
In melancholy gloom, the pinnace past ; 

By many a star-surrounded pyramid 
Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky. 
And caverns yawning round unfathomably. 

XXXIX. 

The silver noon into that winding dell. 

With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, 

Temper'd like golden evening, feebly fell ; 

A green and glowing light, like that which drops 

From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell. 
When earth over her face night's mantle wraps ; 

Between the sever'd mountains lay on high 

Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. 

XL. 

And ever as she went, the Image lay 

With folded wings and unawaken'd eyes ; 

And o'er its gentle countenance did play 
The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, 

Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, 

And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs 

Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain. 

They had aroused from that full heart and brain. 



XLI. 
And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud 

Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went : 
Now lingering on the pools, in which abode 

The calm and darkness of the deep content 
In which they paused ; now o'er the shallow road 

Of white and dancing waters all besprent 
With sands and polish'd pebbles : — mortal boat 
In such a shallow rapid could not float. 

XLII. 
And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver 

Their snow-like waters into golden air. 
Or under chasms unfathomable ever 

Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear 
A subterranean portal for the river. 

It fled — the circling sunbows did upbear 
Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray. 
Lighting it far upon its lampless way. 

XLIII. 
And when the wizard lady would ascend 

The labyrinths of some many-winding vale. 
Which to the inmost mountain upward tend — 

She call'd " Hermaphroditus ! " and the pale 
And heavy hue which slumber could extend 

Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale 
A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, 
Into the darkness of the stream did pass. 

XLIV. 
And it unfurl'd its Heaven-color'd pinions, 

With stars of fire spotting the stream below ; 
And from above into the Sun's dominions 

Flinging a glory, like the golden glow 
In which spring clothes her emerald-winged minions, 

All interwoven with fine feathery snow 
And moonlight splendor of intensest rime, 
With which frost paints the pines in winter-time. 

XLV. 

And then it winnow'd the Elysian air 
Which ever hung about that lady bright, 

With its ethereal vans — and speeding there. 
Like a star up the torrent of the night, 

Or a swift eagle in the morning glsire 

Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight ; 

The pinnace, oar'd by those enchanted wings, 

Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. 

XLVI. 
The water flash'd like sunlight, by the prow 

Of a noon- wandering meteor flung to Heaven \ 
The still air seem'd as if its waves did flow 

In tempest down the moimtains, — loosely driven, 
The lady's radiant hair stream'd to and fro : 

Beneath, the billows having vainly striven 
Indignant and impetuous, roar'd to feel 
The swifl and steady motion of the keel. 

XLVII. 
Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, 

Or in the noon of interlunar night, 
The lady-witch in visions could not chain 

Her spirit ; but sail'd forth under the light 
Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain 

His storm-outspeeding wings, th' Hermaphrodite i 
She to the Austral waters took her way. 
Beyond the fabulous Thamondocona. 
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XLVIII. 

Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, 
Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake 

With the Antarctic constellations haven, 

Canopus and his crew, lay th' Austral lake — 

There she would build herself a windless haven 
Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make 

The bastions of the storm, when through the sky 

The spirits of the tempest thunder'd by. 

XLIX. 
A haven, beneath whose translucent floor 

The tremulous stars sparkled imfathoraably, 
And around which, the solid vapors hoar, 

Based on the level waters, to the sky 
Lifted their dreadful crags ; and like a shore 

Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly 
Hemm'd in with rifts and precipices gray, 
Aud hanging crags, many a cove and bay. 



And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash 

Of the winds' scourge, foam'd like a wounded thing; 

And the incessant hail with stony clash 

Plow'd up the waters, and the flagging wing 

Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash 
Look'd like the wreck of some wind-wandering 

Fragment of inky thunder-smoke — this haven 

Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven. 

LI. 

On which that lady play'd her many pranks, 
Circling the image of a shooting star, 

Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks 

Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, 

In her light boat ; and many quips and cranks 
She play'd upon the water ; till the car 

Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan. 

To journey from the misty east began. 

LII. 

And then she call'd out of the hollow turrets 

Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, 

The armies of her ministering spirits — 
In mighty legions, million after million 

They came, each troop emblazoning its merits 
On meteor flags ; and many a proud pavilion, 

Of the intertexture of the atmosphere. 

They pitch'd upon the plain of the calm mere. 

LIII. 

They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen 

Of woven exhalations, underlaid 
With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen 

A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid 
With crimson silk — cressets from the serene 

Hung there, and on the water for her tread, 
A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn. 
Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. 

LIV. 

And on a throne o'erlaid with star-light, caught 
Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, 

Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, 
She sate, and heard all that had happen'd new 

Between the earth and moon since they had brought 
The last intelligence — and now she grew 

Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night — 

And now she wept, and now she laugh'd outright. 



LV. 

These were tame pleasures. — She would oflen climb 
The steepest ladder of the crudded rack ^ 

Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime. 
And like Arion on the dolphin's back 

Ride singing through the shoreless air. Oft-time 
Following the serpent lightning's winding track 

She ran upon the platforms of the wind. 

And laugh'd to hear the fire-balls roar behind. 

LVI. 

And sometimes to those streams of upper air. 
Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, 

She would ascend, and win the spirits there 
To let her join their chorus. Mortals found 

That on those days the sky was calm and fair, 
And mystic snatches of harmonious sound 

Wander'd upon the earth where'er she past. 

And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. 

LVII. 

But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, 
To glide adown old Mius, t-hen he threads 

Egypt and Ethiopia, from the steep 
Of utmost Axurtie, until he spreads. 

Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, 
His waters on the plain : and crested heads 

Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, 

And many a vapor-belted pyramid. 

LVIII. 
By Maeris and the Mareotid lakes. 

Strewn with faint blooms like bridal-chamber floors; 
Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, 

Or charioteering ghastly alligators. 
Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes 

Of those huge forms : — within the brazen doors 
Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast. 
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. 

LIX. 

And where within the surface of the river 
The shadows of the massy temples lie, 

And never are erased — but tremble ever 

Like things which every cloud can doom to die. 

Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever 
The works of man pierced that serenest sky 

With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight 

To wander in the shadow of the night. 

LX. 

With motion like the spirit of that wind 

Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet 

Past through the peopled haunts of human-kind. 
Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet. 

Through fane and palace-court and labyrinth mined 
With many a dark and subterranean street 

Under the Nile ; through chambers high and deep 

She past, observing mortals in their sleep. 

LXI. 

A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see 
Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. 

Here lay two sister-twins in infancy ; 

There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep 

Within, two lovers link'd innocently 

In their loose locks which over both did creep 

Like ivy from one stem ; — and there lay calm, 

Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LXII. 

But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, 

Not to be mirror'd in a holy song, 
Distortions foul of supernatural awe, 

And pale iniaginings of vision'd wrong, 
And all the code of custom's lawless law 

Written upon the brows of old and young : 
' This," said the wizard maiden, " is the strife. 
Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life." 

LXIII. 

And little did the sight disturb her soul — 
We, the weak mariners of that wide lake, 

Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, 
Our course unpiloted and starless make 

O'er its wide surface to an unknown goal — 

But she in the calm depths her way could take. 

Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide, 

Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. 

LXIV. 

And she saw princes couch'd under the glow 
Of sunlike gems ; and round each temple-court 

In dormitories ranged, row after row. 

She saw the priests asleep, — all of one sort, 

For all were educated to be so ; — 

The peasants in their huts, and in the port 

The sailors she saw cradled on the waves. 

And the dead luU'd within their dreamless graves. 

LXV. 

And all the forms in which those spirits lay 
Were to her sight like the diaphanous 

Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array 

Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us 

Only their scorn of all concealment : they 
Move in the light of their own beauty thus. 

But these, and all, now lay with sleep upon them. 

And little thought a Witch was looking on them. 

LXVI. 

She all those human figures breathing there 

Beheld as living spirits — to her eyes 
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare. 

And often through a rude and worn disguise 
She saw the inner form most bright and fair — 

And then, — she had a charm of strange device. 
Which murmur'd on mute lips with tender tone. 
Could make that spirit mingle with her own. 

LXVII. 

Alas, Aurora ! what wouldst thou have given. 
For such a charm, when Tithon became gray ! 

Or how much, Venus, of thy silver Heaven 
Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina 

Had half (oh ! why not all ?) the debt forgiven 
Which dear Adonais had been doom'd to pay. 

To any witch who would have taught you it ! 

The Heliad doth not know its value yet. 

LXVIII. 

'Tis said in after-times her spirit free 

Knew what love was, and felt itself alone — 

But holy Dian could not chaster be 
Before she stoop'd to kiss Endymion, 

Than now this lady — like a sexless bee 

Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none — 

Among those mortal forms, the wizard maiden 

Pass'd with an eye serene and heart unladen. 



LXIX. 

To those she saw most beautiful, she gave 

Strange panacea in a crystal bowl. 
They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave 

And lived thenceforth as if some control 
Mightier than life, were in them ; and the grave 

Of such, when death oppress'd the weary soul. 
Was as a green and over-arching bower, 
Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. 

LXX. 

For on the night that they were buried, she 
Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook 

The light out of the funeral lamps, to be 
A mimic day within that deathly nook ; 

And she unwound the woven imagery 

Of second childhood's swaddling-bands, and took 

The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, 

And threw it with contempt into a ditch. 

LXXI. 

And there the body lay, age after age. 

Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying. 
Like one asleep in a green hermitage, 

With gentle sleep about its eyelids playing. 
And living in its dreams beyond the rage 

Of death or life ; while they were still arraying 
In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind 
And fleeting generations of mankind. 

LXXII. 

And she would write strange dreams upon the brain 
Of those who were less beautiful, and make 

All harsh and crooked purposes more vain 
Than in the desert is the serpent's wake 

Which the sand covers, — all his evil gain 

The miser in such dreams would rise and shake 

Into a beggar's lap ; — the lying scribe 

Would his own lies betray without a bribe. 

LXXIII. 

The priests would write an explanation full, 
Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, 

How the god Apis really was a bull. 

And nothing more ; and bid the herald stick 

The same against the temple-doors, and pull 
The old cant down ; they licensed all to speak 

Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese. 

By pastoral letters to each diocese. 

LXXIV. 
The king would dress an ape up in his crown 

And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat. 
And on the right hand of the sunlike throne 

Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat 
The chatterings of the monkey. — Every one 

Of the prone courtiers crawl'd to kiss the feet 
Of their great Emperor when the morning came ; 
And kiss'd — alas, how many kiss the same ! 

LXXV. 

The soldiers dream'd that they were blacksmiths, and 
Walk'd out of quarters in somnambulism : 

Round the red anvils you might see them stand 
Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm. 

Beating their swords to plowshares ; — in a band 
The jailers sent those of the liberal schism 

Free through the streets of Memphis ; much, I wis. 

To the annoyance of king Amasis. 

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LXXVI. 

And timid lovers, who had been so coy 
They hardly knew whether they loved or not. 

Would rise out of their rest, and talce sweet joy, 
To the fulfilment of their inmost thought ; 

(^nd when next day the maiden and the boy 
Met one another, both, like sinners caught, 

Blush'd at the thing which each beUeved was done 

Only in fancy — till the tenth moon shone i 

LXXVII. 

And then the Witch would let them take no ill : 
Of many thousand schemes which lovers find 

The Witch found one, — and so they took their fill 
Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. 

Friends who by practice of some envious skill 
Were torn apart, a wide wound, mind from mind ! 

She did unite again with visions clear 

Of deep affection and of truth sincere. 

LXXVIII. 

These were the pranks she play'd among the cities 
Of mortal men, and what she did to sprites 

And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties 
To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, 

I will declare another time ; for it is 

A tale more fit for the weird winter nights — 

Than for these garish summer days, when we 

Scarcely believe much more than we can see. 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE. 

I Swift as a spirit hastening to his task 
Of glory and of good, the Sun sprang forth 
Rejoicing in his splendor, and the mask 

I Of darkness fell from the awaken'd Earth — 
j The smokeless altars of the mountain snows 
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth 

Of light, the Ocean's orison arose, 

To which the birds temper'd their matin lay f 

All flowers in field or forest which unclose 

Their trethbling eyelids to the kiss of day, 
Swinging their censers in the element. 
With orient incense lit by the new ray, 

Burn'd slow and inconsumably, and sent 
Their odorous sighs up to the smihng air; 
And, in succession due, did continent. 

Isle, ocean, and all things that in them wear 
The form and character of mortal mould. 
Rise as the sun their father rose, to bear 

Their portion of the toil, which he of old 
Took as his own and then imposed on them : 
But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold 

Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem 
The cone of night, now they were laid asleep, 
Stretch'd my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem 

Which an old chestnut flung athwart the steep 
Of a green Apennine : before me fled 
The night; behind me rose the day; the deep 
3F 



Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head, 
When a strange trance over my fancy grew. 
Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread 

Was so transparent, that the scene came through 
As clear as when a veil of light is drawn 
O'er evening hills they glimmer ; and I knew 

That I had felt the freshness of that dawn, 
Bathed in the same cold dew my brow and hair. 
And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn 

Under the self-same bough, and heard as there 
The birds, the fountains, and the ocean hold 
Sweet talk in music through the enamor'd air, 
And then a vision on my brain was roll'd. 



As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay, 
This was the tenor of my waking dream : — 
Methought I sate beside a public way 

Thick strewn with summer dust, and a great stream 
Of people there was hurrying to and fro, 
Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam, 

All hastening onward ; yet none seem'd to know 
Whither he went, or whence he came, or why 
He made one of the multitude, and so 

Was borne amid the crowd, as through the sky 
One of the million leaves of summer's bier ; 
Old age and youth, manhood and infancy, 

Mix'd in one mighty torrent did appear, 

Some flying from the thing they fear'd, and some 

Seeking the object of another's fear ; 

And others, as with steps towards the tomb. 
Pored on the trodden worms that crawl'd beneath ; 
And others mournfully within the gloom 

Of their own shadow walk'd, and call'd it death ; 
And some fled from it as it were a ghost, 
Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath : 

But more, with motions which each other crost. 
Pursued or spurn'd the shadows the clouds threw. 
Or birds within the noonday ether lost, 

Upon that path where flowers never grew, 
And weary with vain toil and faint for thirst, 
Heard not the fountains, whose melodious dew 

Out of their mossy cells for ever burst ; 

Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told 

Of grassy paths and wood, lawn-interspersed, 

With overarching elms and caverns cold, 

And violet banks where sweet dreams brood, but they 

Pursued their serious folly as of old. 

And as I gazed, methought that in the way 
The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June 
When the louth wind shakes the extinguish'd day ; 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And a cold glare, intenser than the noon, 
But icy cold, obscured with [blinding] light 
The sun, as he the stars. Like the young moon. 

When on the sunlit limits of the night 
Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, 
And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might, 

Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear 

The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim frown 

Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair, — 

So came a chariot on the silent storm 
Of its own rushing splendor, and a Shape 
So sate within, as one whom years deform, 

Beneath a dusky hood and double cape, 

Crouching within the shadow of a tomb ; 

And o'er what seem'd the head a cloud-like crape 

Was bent, a dun and faint ethereal gloom 
Tempering the light upon the chariot beam ; 
A Janus-visaged shadow did assume 

The guidance of that wonder-winged team ; 
The shapes which drew it in thick lightnings 
Were lost : — I heard alone on the air's soft stream 

The music of their ever-moving wings. 

All the four faces of that charioteer 

Had their eyes banded ; little profit brings 

Speed in the van and blindness in the rear, 
Nor then avail the beams that quench the sun, 
Or that with banded eyes could pierce the sphere 

Of all that is, has been or will be done ; 
So ill was the car guided — but it past 
With solemn speed majestically on. 

The crowd gave way, and I arose aghast, 
Or seem'd to rise, so mighty was the trance, 
And saw, like clouds upon the thunder's blast. 

The million with fierce song and maniac dance 
Raging around — such seem'd the jubilee 
As when to meet some conqueror's advance 

Imperial Rome pour'd forth her living sea. 
From senate-house, and forum, and theatre. 
When [ ] upon the free 

Had bound a yoke, which soon they stoop'd to bear. 
Nor wanted here the just similitude 
Of a triumphal pageant, for where'er 

The chariot roU'd, a captive multitude 

Was driven; — all those who had grown old in power 

Or misery, — all who had their age subdued 

By action or by suffering, and whose hour 

Was drain'd to its last sand in weal or woe, 

So that the trunk survived both fruit and flower ; — 

All those whose fame or infamy must grow 
Till the great winter lay the form and name 
Of this green earth with them for ever l»w j — 



All but the sacred few who could not tame 
Their spirits to the conquerors — but as soon 
As they had touch'd the world with living flame. 

Fled back like eagles to their native noon ; 

Or those who put aside the diadem 

Of earthly thrones or gems [ ] 

Were there, of Athens or Jerusalem, 
Were neither 'mid the mighty captives seen, 
Nor 'mid the ribald crowd that follow'd them. 

Nor those who went before fierce and obscene. 
The wild dance maddens in the van, and those 
Who lead it, fleet as shadows on the green, 

Outspeed the chariot, and without repose 
Mix with each other in tempestuous measure 
To savage music ; wilder as it grows, 

They, tortured by their agonizing pleasure. 
Convulsed and on the rapid whirlwinds spun 
Of that fierce spirit, whose unholy leisure 

Was soothed by mischief since the world begun. 
Throw back their heads and loose their streaming hair. 
And in their dance round her who dims the sun, 

Maidens and youths fling their wild arms in air ; 
As their feet twinkle, they recede, and now 
Bending within each other's atmospjiere 

Kindle invisibly — and as they glow. 

Like moths by light attracted and repell'd, 

Oft to their bright destruction come and go. 

Till, like two clouds into one vale impell'd, 

That shake the mountains when their lightnings mingle. 

And die in rain — the fiery band which held 

Their natures, snaps — the shock still may tingle ; 
One falls and then another in the path 
Senseless — nor is the desolation single ; 

Yet ere I can say where — the chariot hath 
Past over them — nor other trace I find 
But as of foam after the ocean's wrath 

Is spent upon the desert shore : — behind, 
Old men and women foully disarray'd. 
Shake their gray hairs in the insulting wind, 

To seek, to [ ], to strain with limbs decay'd, 

Limping to reach the light which leaves them still 
Farther behind and deeper in the shade. 

But not the less with impotence of will 
They wheel, though ghastly shadows interpose 
Round them and round each other, and fulfil 

Their work, and in the dust from whence they rose 

Sink, and corruption veils them as they lie. 

And past in these performs what [ ] in those 

Struck to the heart by this sad pageantry, 
Half to myself I said— And what is this ? 
Whose shape is that within the car ? And why- 
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195 



I would have added — is all here amiss ? — 

But a voice answer'd — " Life ! " — I turn'd, and knew 

(Oh Heaven, have mercy on such wretchedness !) 

That what I thought was an old root which grew 
To strange distortion out of the hill-side, 
Was indeed one of those deluded crew, 

And that the grass, which methought hung so wide 
And white, was but his thin discolor'd hair, 
And that the holes it vainly sought to hide, 

I 

, Were or had been eyes : — " If thou canst forbear 
j To join the dance, which I had well forborne ! " 
Said the grim Feature of my thought: "Aware, 

" I will unfold that which to this deep scorn 
Led me and my companions, and relate 
The progress of the pageant since the morn ; 

" If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate, 

Follow it thou even to the night, but I 

Am weary." — Then like one who with the weight 

Of his own words is stagger'd, wearily 

He paused ; and ere he could resume, I cried : 

"First, who art thou?" — " Before thy memory, 

" I fear'd, loved, hated, sufFer'd, did and died. 
And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit 
Had been with purer sentiment supplied, 

" Corruption would not now thus much inherit 
Of what was once Rousseau, — nor this disguise 
Stain'd that which ought to have disdain'd to wear it; 

" If I have been extinguish'd, yet there rise 
A thousand beacons from the spark I bore" — 
"And who are those chain'd to the car?" — "The wise, 

" The great, the unforgotten, — they who wore 
Mitres and helms, and crowns, or wreaths of light. 
Signs of thought's empire over thought — their lore 

"Taught them not this, to know themselves; their might 

Could not repress the mystery within. 

And for the morn of truth they feign'd, deep night 

" Caught them ere evening." — " Who is he with chin 
Upon his breast, and hands crost on his chain ? " — 
" The Child of a fierce hour ; he sought to win 

" The world, and lost all that it did contain 
Of greatness, in its hope destroy'd ; and more 
Of fame and peace than virtue's self can gain, 

" Without the opportunity which bore 

Him on its eagle pinions to the peak 

From which a thousand climbers have before 

" Fall'n, as Napoleon fell." — I felt my cheek 

Alter, to see the shadow pass away 

Whose grasp had left the giant world so weak, 

That every pigmy kick'd it as it lay ; 

And much I grieved to think how power and will 

In opposition rule our mortal day, 



And why God made irreconcilable 

Good and the means of good ; and for despair 

I half disdain'd mine eyes' desire to fill 

With the spent vision of the times that were 

And scarce have ceased to be. — "Dost thou behold," 

Said my guide, " those spoilers spoil'd, Voltaire, 

"Frederic, and Paul, Catherine, and Leopold, 
And hoary anarchs, demagogues, and sage — 
names the world thinks always old, 

" For in the battle, life and they did wage, 
She remain'd conqueror. I was overcome 
By my own heart alone, which neither age, 

" Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now the tomb. 
Could temper to its object. — "Let them pass," 
I cried, " the world and its mysterious doom 

" Is not so much more glorious than it was. 
That I desire to worship those who drew 
New figures on its false and fragile glass 

" As the old faded." — " Figures ever new 
Rise on the bubble, paint them as you may ; 
We have but throwTi, as those before us threw, 

" Our shadows on it as it pass'd away. 

But mark how chain'd to the triumphal chaii 

The mighty phantoms of an elder day ; 

"All that is mortal of great Plato there 
Expiates the joy and woe his master knew not ; 
The star that ruled his doom was far too fair, 

" And life, where long that flower of Heaven grew not, 
Conquer'd that heart by love, which gold, or pain, 
Or age, or sloth, or slavery could subdue not. 

" And near walk the [ ] twain, 

The tutor and his pupil, whom Dominion 
FoUow'd as tame as vulture in a chain. 

" The world was darken'd beneath either pinion 
Of him whom from the flock of conquerors 
Fame singled out for her thunder-bearing minion ; 

" The other long outlived both woes and wars. 
Throned in the thoughts of men, and still had kept 
The jealous key of truth's eternal doors, 

" If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt 

Like lightning out of darkness — he compell'd 

The Proteus shape of Natiure as it slept 

" To wake, and lead him to the caves that held 

The treasure of the secrets of its reign. 

See the great bards of elder time, who quell'd 

The passions which they sung, as by their strain 
May well be knovra : their living melody 
Tempers its own contagion to the vein 

" Of those who are infected with it — ^I 
Have suflfer'd what I wrote, or viler pain ! 

And so my words have seeds of misery" 

443 



19G 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



[There is a chasm here in the MS. which it is im- 
possible to fill up. It appears from the context, 
that other shapes pass, and that Rousseau still stood 
beside the dreamer, as] — 



he pointed to a company. 



Midst whom I quickly recognized the heirs 
Of Caesar's crime, from him to Constantine; 
The anarch chiefs, whose fierce and murderous snares 

Had founded many a sceptre-bearing line. 

And spread the plague of gold and blood abroad : 

And Gregory and John, and men divine. 

Who rose like shadows between man and God ; 

Till that eclipse, still hanging ove'i" heaven. 

Was worshipp'd by the world o'er which they strode. 

For the true sun it quench'd — " Their power was given 
But to destroy," replied the leader : — " I 
Am one of those who have created, even 

" If it be but a world of agony." — 

" Whence comest thou? and whither goest thou? 

How did thy course begin ? " I said, " and why ? 

" Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow 

Of people, and my heart sick of one sad thought — 

Speak ! " — " Whence I am, I partly seem to know, 

" And how and by what paths I have been brought 
To this dread pass, methinks even thou mayest guess; — 
Why this should be, my mind can compass not; 

" Whither the conqueror hurries me, still less ; — 
But follow thou, and from spectator turn 
Actor or victim in this wretchedness, 

" And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn 
From thee. Now listen:— ;In the April prime, 
When all the forest tips began to bum 

" With kindling green, touch'd by the azure clime 
Of the young year's dawn, I was laid asleep 
Under a mountain, which from unknown time 

" Had yawn'd into a cavern, high and deep ; 

And from it came a gentle rivulet. 

Whose water, like clear air, in its calm sweep 

" Bent the soft grass, and kept for ever wet 

The stems of the sweet flowers, and fill'd the grove 

With sounds which whoso hears must needs forget 

" All pleasure and all pain, all hate and love. 
Which they had known before that hour of rest ; 
A sleeping mother then would dream not of 

" Her only child who died upon her breast 
At eventide — a king would mourn no more 
The crown of which his brows were dispossest 



" When the sun Itnger'd o'er his ocean floor, 

To gild his rival's new prosperity. 

Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore 

" Ills, which if ills can find no cure from thee, 
The thought of which no other sleep will quell 
Nor other music blot from memory, 

" So sweet and deep is the oblivious spell ; 
And whether life had been before that sleep 
The heaven which I imagine, or a hell 

" Like this harsh world in which I wake to weej 

I know not. I arose, and for a space 

The scene of woods and waters seem'd to keep, 

" Though it was now broad day, a gentle trace 
Of light diviner than the common sun 
Sheds on the common earth, and all the place 

" Was fill'd with magic sounds woven into one 

Oblivious melody, confusing sense 

Amid the gliding waves and shadows dun ; 

"And, as I look'd, the bright omnipresence 
Of morning through the orient cavern flow'd, 
And the sun's image radiantly intense 

" Burn'd on the waters of the well that glow'd 
Like gold, and threaded all the forest's maze 
With winding paths of emerald fire ; there stood 

" Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze 

Of his own glory, on the vibrating 

Floor of the fountain, paved with flashing rays, 

" A Shape all light, which with one hand did fling 
Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn, 
And the invisible rain did ever sing 

" A silver music on the mossy lawn ; 
And still before me on the dusky grass. 
Iris her many-color'd scarf had drawn : 

" In her bright hand she bore a crystal glass. 
Mantling with bright Nepenthe ; the fierce splendoi 
Fell from her as she moved under the mass 

" Out of the deep cavern, with palms so tender, 
Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow ; 
She glided along the river, and did bend her 

" Head under the dark boughs, till like a willow, 
Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream 
That whisper'd with delight to be its pillow. 

" As one enamor'd is upborne in dream 

O'er lily-paven lakes 'mid silver mist. 

To wondrous music, so this shape might seem 

" Partly to tread the waves with feet which kiss'd 
The dancing foam ; partly to glide along 
The air which roughen'd the moist amethyst, 

" Or the faint morning beams that fell among 
The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees ; 
And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song 
444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



197 



" Of leaves, and winds, and waves, and birds, and bees. 
And falling drops, moved to a measure new 
; Yet sweet, as on the summer evening breeze, 

" Up from the lake a shape of golden dew 
Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon, 
Dances i' the wind, where never eagle flew; 

" And still her feet, no less than the sweet tune 

To which they moved, seem'd as they moved, to blot 

The thoughts of him who gazed on them; and soon 

" All that was, seem'd as if it had been not ; 
And all the gazer's mind was strewn beneath 
Her feet like embers; and she, thought by thought, 

" Trampled its sparks into the dust of death ; 

As day upon the threshold of the east 

Treads out the lamps of night, until the breath 

" Of darkness reillumine even the least 

Of heaven's living eyes — like day she came, 

Making the night a dream ; and ere she ceased 

" To move, as one between desire and shame 
Suspended, I said — If, as it doth seem, 
Thou comest from the realm without a name, 

" Into this valley of perpetual dream. 

Show whence I came, and where I am, and why — 

Pass not away upon the passing stream. 

" Arise and quench thy thir&t, was her reply. 
And as a shut lily, stricken by the wand 
I Of dewy morning's vital alchemy, 

« <" I rose ; and, bending at her sweet command, 
j Tou'ch'd with faint lips the cup she raised, 
sA.nd suddenly my brain became as sand 

" Where the first wave had more than half erased - 
The track of deer on desert Labrador ; 
Whilst the wolf, from which they fled amazed, 

" Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore. 
Until the second bursts ; — so on my sight 
Burst a new vision, never seen before, 

" And the fair shape waned in the coming light. 
As veil by veil the silent splendor drops 
From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite 

" Of sun-rise, ere it tinge the mountain-tops ; 
And as the presence of that fairest planet, 
Although unseen, is felt by one who hopes 

« That his day's path may end as he began it. 
In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent 
Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, 

" Or the soft note in which his dear lament 
The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress 
That turn'd his weary slumber to content ;* 



* The favorite song, " Stanco di pascolar le peccorelle,' 
is a Brescian national air. 



" So knew I in that light's severe excess 

The presence of that shape which on the stream 

Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, 

" More dimly than a, day-appearing dream, 

The ghost of a forgotten form asleep ; 

A light of heaven, whose half-extinguish'd beam 

" Through the sick day in which we wake to weep. 
Glitters, for ever sought, for ever lost ; 
So did that shape its obscure tenor keep 

" Beside my path, as silent as a ghost ; 

But the new Vision, and the cold bright car, 

With solemn speed and stunning music, crost 

" The forest, and as if from some dread war 
Triumphantly returning, the loud million 
Fiercely extoll'd the fortune of her star. 

" A moving arch of victory, the vermilion 
And green and azure plumes of Iris had 
Built high over 



k'lciury, iiie veriiunu 
and azure plumes of Iris had 
■ her wind-wing'd pavilion. 



" And underneath ethereal glory clad 
The wilderness, and far before her flew 
The tempest of the splendor, which forbade 

" Shadow to fall from leaf and stone ; the crew 
Seem'd in that light like atomies to dance 
Within a sunbeam ; — some upon the new 

" Embroidery of flowers, that did enhance 
The grassy vesture of the desert, play'd. 
Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance ; 

" Others stood gazing, till within the shade 
Of the great mountain its light left them dim ; 
Others outspeeded it ; and others made 

" Circles around it, like the clouds that swim 
Round the high moon in a bright sea of air ; 
And more did follow, with exulting hymn, 

" The chariot and the captives fetter'd there : — 
But all like bubbles on an eddying flood 
Fell into the same track at last, and were 

" Borne onward. — I among the multitude 

Was swept — me, sweetest flowers delay'd not long ; 

Me, not the shadow nor the solitude ; 

" Me, not that falling stream's Lethean song ; 
Me, not the phantom of that early form. 
Which moved upon its motion — but among 

" The thickest billows of that living storm 
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime 
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform. 

" Before the chariot had begun to climb 
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell, 
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme 

" Of him who from the lowest depths of hell. 
Through every paradise and through all glory, 
Love led serene, and who return'd to tell 
445 



198 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" The words of hate and care ; the wondrous story 
How all things are transfigured except Love ; 
For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary, 

" The world can hear not the sweet notes that move 
The sphere whose light is melody to lovers — 
A wonder worthy of his rhyme — the grove 

" Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, 
The earth was gray with phantoms, and the air 
Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers 

" A flock of vampire-bats before the glare 

Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, 

Strange night upon some Indian vale ; — thus were 

" Phantoms diffused around ; and some did fling 
Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, 
Behind them ; some like eaglets on the wing 

" Were lost in the white day ; others like elves 
Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes 
Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves ; 

" And others sate chattering like restless apes 

On vulgar hands, ***** 

Some made a cradle of the ermined capes 

" Of kingly mantles ; some across the tire 
Of pontiflS rode, like demons ; others play'd 
Under the crown which girt with empire 

" A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made 

Their nests in it. The old anatomies 

Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade 

" Of demon wings, and laugh'd from their dead eyes 

To reassurae the delegated power, 

Array'd in which those worms did monarchize, 

" Who make this earth their charnel. Others more 

Humble, like falcons, sate upon the fist 

Of common men, and round their heads did soar; 

" Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as mist 
On evening marshes, throng'd about the brow 
Of lawyers, statesmen, priest and theorist : — 

" And others, like discolor'd flakes of snow 
On feirest bosoms and the sunniest hair, 
Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow 

** Which they extinguish'd ; and, Uke tears, they were 
A veil to those from whose faint lids they rain'd 
In drops of sorrow. I became aware 

" Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stain'd 
The track in which we moved. After brief space. 
From every fonn the beauty slowly waned ; 

" From every firmest limb and fairest face 

The strength and freshness fell like dust, and left 

The action and the shape without the grace 

" Of life. The marble brow of youth was cleft 
With care ; and in those eyes where once hope shone. 
Desire, like a lioness bereft 



" Of her last cub, glared ere it died ; each one 

Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly 

These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown 

" In autumn evening from a poplar-tree. 
Each like himself and like each other were 
At first ; but some distorted, seem'd to be 

" Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air ; 
And of this stuff the car's creative ray 
Wrapt all the busy phantoms that were there, 

" As the sun shapes the clouds ; thus on the way 
Mask after mask fell from the countenance 
And form of all ; and long before the day 

" Was old, the joy which waked like heaven's glance 
The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died ; 
And some grew weary of the ghastly dance, 

" And fell, as I have fallen ; by the way-side ; — 
Those soonest from whose forms most shadows past, 
And least of strength and beauty did abide." 

" Then, what is life ? I cried."— 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. 

OCTOBER, 1818. 



These lines were written after a day's excursion among 
those lonely mountains which surround what was once 
the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. 
If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the in- 
troductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a 
state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed 
by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn on 
the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only 
ofTer as my excuse, that they were not erased at the re- 
quest of a dear friend, with whom added years of inter* 
course only add to my apprehension of its value, and who 
would have had more right than any one to complain, 
that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very 
power of delineating sadness. 



Many a green isle needs must be 
In the deep wide sea of misery. 
Or the mariner, worn and wan. 
Never thus could voyage on 
Day and night, and night and day, 
Drifting on his dreary way. 
With the solid darkness black 
Closing round his vessel's track ; 
Whilst above, the sunless sky. 
Big with clouds, hangs heavily. 
And behind the tempest fleet 
Hurries on with lightning feet, 
Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 
Till the ship has almost drank 
Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 
And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
When the dreamer seems to be 
Weltering through eternity ; 
And the dim low line before 
Of a dark and distant shore 
Still recedes, as ever still 
Longing with divided will, 

4if 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



199 



But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave, 

To the haven of the grave. 

What, if there no friends will greet ; 

What, if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may. 

Can he dream before that day 

To find a refuge from distress ' 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress ? 

Then 't will wreak him little woe 

Whether such there be or no : 

Senseless is the breast, and cold. 

Which relenting love would fold ; 

Bloodless are the veins and chill 

Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 

Every little living nerve 

That from bitter words did swerve 

Round the tortured lips and brow. 

Are like sapless leaflets now 

Frozen upon December's bough. 

On the beach of a northern sea 

Which tempests shake eternally. 

As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 

Lies a solitary heap, 

One white skull and seven dry bones. 

On the margin of the stones, 

Where a few gray rushes stand. 

Boundaries of the sea and land : 

Tsfor is heard one voice of wail 

But the sea-mews', as they sail 

O'er the billows of the gale ; 

Or the whirlwind up and down 

Howling, like a slaughter'd town, 

When a king in glory rides 

Through the pomp of fratricides : 

Those unburied bones around 

There is many a mournful sound ; 

There is no lament for him, • 

Like a sunless vapor, dim. 

Who once clothed with life and thought 

What now moves nor murmurs not. 



Ay, many flowering islands lie 
In the waters of wide Agony : 
To such a one this morn was led 
My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
'Mid the mountains Euganean, 
I stood listening to the paean 
With which the legion'd rooks did hail 
The sun's uprise majestical ; 
Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
Through the dewy mist they soar 
Like gray shades, till th' eastern heaven 
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie 
In the unfathomable sky. 
So their plumes of purple grain, 
Starr'd with drops of golden rain, ^ 
Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
As in silent multitudes 
On the morning's fitful gale 
Through the broken mist they sail. 
And the vapors cloven and gleaming 
Follow down the dark steep streaming, 



Till all is bright, and clear, and still, 
Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair ; 
Underneath day's azure eyes 
Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, — 
A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls. 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind. 
Broad, red, radiant, half^rechned 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline ; 
And before that chasm of light. 
As within a furnace bright. 
Column, tower, and, dome, and spire, 
Shine like obelisks of fire. 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 
From the marble shrines did rise, 
As to pierce the dome of gold 
Where Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt City ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
Now is come a darker day. 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
If the power that raised thee here 
Hallow so thy watery bier, 
A less drear ruin then than now. 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne, among the waves 
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew, 
O'er thine isles depopulat^i. , 
And all is in its ancient state. 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own. 
Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 
The fisher on his watery way, 
Wandering at the close of day. 
Will spead his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 

Those who alone thy towers behold 
Quivering through aerial gold, 
As I now behold them here. 
Would imagine not they were 
Sepulchres, where human forms. 
Like pollution-no urish'd worms, 
To the corpse of greatness cUng, 
Murder'd, and now mouldering : 
447 



200 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But if Freedom should awake 

In her omnipotence, and shake 

From the Celtic Anarch's hold 

All the keys of dungeons cold, 

Where a hundred cities lie 

Chain'd like thee, ingloriously, 

Thou and all thy sister band ^ 

Might adorn this sunny land, 

Twining memories of old time 

With new virtues more sublime ; 

If not, perish thou and they, 

Clouds which stain truth's rising day 

By her sun consumed away, 

Earth can spare ye : while like flowers, 

In the waste of years and hours, 

From your dust new nations spring 

With more kindly blossoming. 

Perish ! let there only be 

Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, 

As the garment of thy sky 

Clothes the world immortally, 

One remembrance, more sublime 

Than the tatter'd pall of Time, 

Which scarce hides thy visage wan , 

That a tempes^cleaving swan 

Of the songs of Albion, 

Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams. 

Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean 

Welcomed him with such emotion 

That its joy grew his, and sprung 

From his lips like music flung * 

O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 

Chastening terror : what though yet 

Poesy's unfailing river. 

Which through Albion winds for ever, 

Lashing with melodious wave 

Many a sacred poet's grave. 

Mourn its latest nursling fled ! 

What though thou with all thy dead 

Scarce can for this fame repay 

Aught thine own, — oh, rather say. 

Though thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sunlike soul ! 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 

As divinest Shakspeare's might 

Fills Avon and the world with light, 

Like omniscient power, which he 

Imaged 'mid mortality; 

As the love from Petrarch's urn, 

Yet amid yon hills doth bum, 

A quenchless lamp, by which the heart 

Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, 

Mighty spirit : so shall be 

The city that did refuge thee. 

Lo, the sun floats up the sky 
Like thought-winged Liberty, 
Till the universal light 
Seems to level plain and height ; 
From the sea a mist was spread. 
And the beams of morn lie dead 
On the towers of Venice now, 
Like its glory long ago. 



By the skirts of that gray cloud 
Many-domed Padua proud 
Stands, a peopled solitude, 
'Mid the harvest-shining plain, 
Where the peasant heaps his grain 
In the garner of his foe, 
And the milk-white oxen slow 
With the purple vintage strain, 
Heap'd upon the creaking wain, 
That the brutal Celt may swill 
Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
And the sickle to the sword 
Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
Overgrows this region's foison, 
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
To destruction's harvest-home : 
Men must reap the things they sow. 
Force from force must ever flow, 
Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 
That love or reason cannot change 
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 



Padua, thou within whose walls 
Those mute guests at festivals. 
Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
Play'd at dice for Ezzehn, 
Till Death cried, "I win, I win !" 
And Sin cursed to lose the wager. 
But Death promised, to assuage her. 
That he would petition for 
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
When the destined years were o'er. 
Over all between the Po 
And the eastern Alpine snow, 
Under the mighty Austrian. 
Sin smiled so as Sin only can, 
And since that time, ay, long before, 
Both have ruled from shore to shore. 
That incestuous pair, who follow 
Tyrants as the sun the swallow. 
As Repentance follows Crime, 
And as changes follow Time- 
In thine halls the lamp of learning, 
Padua, now no more is burning ; 
Like a meteor, whose wild way 
Is lost over the grave of day. 
It gleams betray'd and to betray : 
Once remotest nations came 
To adore that sacred flame. 
When it lit not many a hearth 
On this cold and gloomy earth : 
Now new fires from antique light 
Spring beneath the wide world's might , 
But their spark lies dead in thee. 
Trampled out by tyranny. 
As the Norway woodman quells. 
In the depth of piny dells. 
One light flame among the brakes. 
While the boundless forest shakes. 
And its mighty trunks are torn 
By the fire thus lowly born ; 
The spark beneath his feet is dead. 
He starts to see the flames it fed 
448 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



201 



Howling through the darken'd sky 
With a myriad tongues victoriously, 
And sinks down in fear : so thou, 
O tyranny ! beholdest now 
Light around thee, and thou hearest 
The loud flames ascend, and fearest : 
Grovel on the earth ; ay, hide 
In the dust thy purple pride ! 



Noon descends around me now : 

'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 

When a soft and purple mist 

Like a vaporous amethyst. 

Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of Heaven's profound, 

Fills the overflowing sky ; 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath, the leaves unsodden 

Where the infant ft-ost has trodden 

With his morning- winged feet. 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 

And the red and golden vines. 

Piercing with their trellis'd hues 

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 

The dun and bladed grass no less, 

Pointing from this hoary tower 

In the windless air ,• the flower 

Glimmering at my feet; the line 

Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 

In the south dimly islanded ; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun; 

And of living things each one ; 

And my spirit, which so long 

Darken'd this swift stream of song, 

Interpenetrated lie 

By the glory of the sky ; 

Be it love, light, harmony, 

Odor, or the soul of all 

Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, 

Or the mind which feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universe. 



Noon descends, and after noon 

Autumn's evening meets me soon, 

Leading the infantine moon, 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs : 

And the soft dreams of the mom 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

'Mid remember'd agonies. 

The frail bark of this lone being), 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 

And its ancient pilot. Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 
In the sea of life and agony : 
Other spirits float and flee 
O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps. 
On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
3G 



With folded wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love. 

May a windless bower be built. 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 

In a dell 'mid lawny hills, 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round, 

And the light and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 

We may live so happy there. 

That the spirits of the air. 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our heahng paradise 

The polluting multitude ,' 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm. 

And the winds, whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies. 

And the love which heals all strife 

Circhng, Uke the breath of life. 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood. 

They, not it, would change ; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain. 

And the earth grow young again. 



LETTER TO . 

Leghorn, July 1, 1820. 

The spider spreads her webs, whether she be 

In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree ; 

The silkworm in the dark-green mulberry-leaves 

His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves ; 

So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, 

Sit spinning still round this decaying form. 

From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought — 

No net of words in garish colors wrought 

To catch the idle buzzers of the day — 

But a soft cell, where, when that fades away. 

Memory may clothe in wdngs my living name, 

And feed it with the asphodels of fame. 

Which in those hearts which most remember me 

Grow, making love an immortality. 

Whoever should behold me now, I wist. 
Would think I were a mighty mechanist. 
Bent with sublime Archimedean art 
To breathe a soul into the iron heart 
Of some machine portentous, or strange gin. 
Which by the force of figured spells might win 
Its way over the sea, and sport therein ; 
For round the walls are hung dread engines, such 
As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch 
Ixion or the Titan : — or the quick 
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, 
To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic ; 
449 



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Or those in philosopliic councils met, 

Who thought to pay some interest for the debt 

They Owed ********** 

By giving a faint foretaste of damnation 

To Shakspeare, Sidney, Spenser and the rest 

Who made our land an island of the blest, 

When lamplike Spain, who now relumes her fire 

On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire : — 

With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike 

and jag. 
Which fishes found under the utmost crag 
Of Cornwall and the storm-encompass'd isles, 
Where to the sky the rude sea seldom smiles 
Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn 
When the exulting elements in scorn 
Satiated with destroy'd desstruction, lay 
Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, 
As panthers sleep: and other strange and dread 
Magical forms the brick floor overspread 
Proteus transform'd to metal did not make 
More figures, or more strange ; nor did he take 
Such shapes of unintelligible brass. 
Or heap himself in such a horrid mass 
Of tin and iron not to be understood, 
And forms of unimaginable wood. 
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood : 
GrjBat screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved 

blocks. 
The elements of what will stand the shocks 
Of wave and wind and time. — Upon the table 
More knacks and quips there be than I am able 
To catalogize in this verse of mine : — 
A pretty bowl of wood — not full of wine, 
But quicksilver ; that dew which the gnomes drink 
When at their subterranean toil they swink, 
Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who 
Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo ! 
And call out to the cities o'er their head, — 
Roofs, towns and shrines, — the dying and the dead 
Crash through the chinks of earth — and then all quaff 
Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. 
This quicksilver no gnome has drunk — within 
The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, 
In color like the wake of light that stains 
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains 
The inmost shower of its white fire — the breeze 
Is still — blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. 
And in this bowl of quicksilver — for I 
Yield to the impulse of an infancy 
Outlasting manhood — I have made to float 
A rude idealism of a paper boat — 
A hollow screw with cogs — Henry will know 
The thing I mean and laugh at me, — if so 
He fears not I should do more mischief. — Next 
Lie bills and calculations much perplext. 
With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint 
Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. 
Then comes a range of mathematical 
Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, 
A heap of rosin, a green broken glass 
With ink in it ; — a china cup that was 
What it will never be again, I think, 
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink 
The liquor doctors rail at — and which I 
Will quaflf in spite of them — and when we die 
We '11 toss up who died first of drinking tea. 
And cry out, — ^heads or tails ? where'er we be. 



Near that a dusty paint-box, some old hooks, 
A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books. 
Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms. 
To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, 
Lie heap'd in their harmonious disarray 
Of figures, — disentangle them who may. 
Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them he. 
And some odd volumes of old chemistry. 
Near them a most inexplicable thing. 
With least in the middle — I'm conjecturing 
How to make Henry understand ; — but — no, 
I '11 leave, as Spenser says, with many mo. 
This secret in the pregnant womb of time. 
Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. 



And here like some weird Archimage sit I, 

Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery. 

The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind 

Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind 

The gentle spirit of our meek reviews 

Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, 

Ruffling the ocean of their self-content; 

I sit — and smile or sigh as is my bent. 

But not for them — Libeccio rushes round 

With an inconstant and an idle sound ; 

I heed him more than them — the thunder-smoke 

Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak 

Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare ; 

The ripe corn under the undulating air 

Undulates like an ocean ; — and the vines 

Are trembling wide in all their trellis'd lines — 

The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill 

The empty pauses of the blast ; — the hill 

Looks hoary through the white electric rain. 

And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain 

The interrupted thunder howls ; above 

One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the age of love 

On the unquiet world ; — while such things are. 

How could one worth your friendship heed the war 

Of worms ? The shriek of the world's carrion jays. 

Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise ? 



You are not here ! the quaint witch Memory sees , 
In vacant chairs, your absent images. 
And points where once you sat, and now should be, 
But are not. — I demand if ever we 
Shall meet as then we met ; — and she replies. 
Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes ; 
" I know the past alone — but summon home 
My sister Hope, she speaks of all to come." 
But I, an old diviner, who know well 
Every false verse of that sweet oracle, 
Turn'd to the sad enchantress once again. 
And sought a respite from my gentle pain. 
In acting every passage o'er and o'er 
Of our communion. — How on the sea-shore 
We watch'd the ocean and the sky together. 
Under the roof of blue Italian weather ; 
How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, . 
And felt the transverse lightning linger warm 
Upon my cheek : — and how we often made 
Treats for each other, where good-will outweigh'd 
The frugal luxury of our country cheer. 
As it well might, were it less firm and clear 
450 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



203 



Than ours must ever be ; — and how we spun 
A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun 
Of this familiar life, which seems to be 
But is not, — or is but quaint mockery 
Of all we would believe ; or sadly blame 
The jarring and inexplicable frame 
Of this wrong world : — and then anatomize 
The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes 
Were closed in distant years ; — or widely guess 
The issue of the earth's great business, 
When we shall be as we no longer are ; 
Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war 
Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not ; or how 
You listen'd to some interrupted flow 
Of visionary rhyme — in joy and pain 
Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, 
With little skill perhaps ; — or how we sought 
Those deepest wells of passion or of thought 
Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, 
Staining the sacred waters with our tears ; 
Quenching a thirst ever to be renew'd ! 
Or how I, wisest lady ! then indued 
The language of a land which now is free, 

j And, wing'd with thoughts of truth and majesty, 
Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, 

* And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, 

I " My name is Legion !" — that majestic tongue 

j Which Calderon over the desert flung 
Of ages and of nations ; and which found 
An echo in our hearts, and with the sound 

j Startled oblivion ; — thou wert then to me 

I As is a nurse — when inarticulately 

A child would talk as its grown parents do. 

If living winds the rapid clouds pursue. 

If hawks chase doves through the aerial way. 

Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, 

' Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast 

' Out of the forest of the pathless past 
These recollected pleasures ? 

I 

You are now 
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow 
At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore 
Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. 
Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see 
******** 

You will see C ; he who sits obscure 

In the exceeding lustre and the pure 

Intense irradiations of a mind. 

Which with its own internal lustre blind. 

Flags wearily through darkness and despair— 

A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, 

A hooded eagle among blinking owls. 

You will see H — t ; one of those happy souls 

Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom 

This world would smell hke what it is — a tomb ; 

Who is, what others seem ,* — his room no doubt 

Is still adorn'd by many a cast from Shout, 

With graceful flowers, tastefully placed about ; 

And coronals of bay from riband hung. 

And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, 

The gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens 

Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousms. 

And there is he with his eternal puns, 

Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns 



Thundering for money at a poet's door ; 

Alas ! it is no use to say, " I 'm poor ! " 

Or oft in graver mood, when he will look 

Things wiser than were ever said in book. 

Except in Shakspeare's wisest tenderness. 

You will see H — , and I cannot express 

His virtues, though I know that they are great, 

Because he locks, then barricades, the gate 

Within which they inhabit ; — of his wit 

And wisdom, you '11 cry out when you are bit. 

He is a pearl within an oyster-shell, 

One of the richest of the deep. And there 

Is English P — with his mountain Fair 

Turn'd into a Flamingo, — that shy bird 

That gleams i' the Indian air. Have you not heard 

When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, 

His best friends hear no more of him ? but you 

Will see him and will like him too, I hope. 

With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope 

Match'd with this cameleopard ; his fine wit 

Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it ; 

A strain too learned for a shallow age. 

Too wise for selfish bigots ; — let his page 

Which charms the chosen spirits of the age, 

Fold itself up for a serener clime 

Of years to come, and find its recompense 

In that just expectation. Wit and sense. 

Virtue and human knowledge, all that might 

Make this dull world a business of delight, 

Are all combined in H. S. — And these, 

With some exceptions, which I need not tease 

Your patience by descanting on, are all 

You and I know in London. 

I recall 
My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. 
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight 
Fills the void, hollow, universal air. 
What see you ? — Unpavilion'd heaven is fair, 
Whether the moon, into her chamber gone. 
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan 
Chmbs with diminish 'd beams the azure steep ; 
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep, 
Piloted by the many-wandering blast. 
And the rare stars rush through them, dim and fast. 
All this is beautiful in every land. 
But what see you beside ? A shabby stand 
Of hackney-coaches — a brick house or wall. 
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl 
Of our unhappy politics ; — or worse — 
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse 
Mix'd with the watchman's, partner of her trade, 
You must accept in place of serenade — 
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit 
Built round dark caverns, even to the root 
Of the living stems who feed them ; in whose bowers 
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers ; 
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled com 
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne 
In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance. 
Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance 
Pale in the open moonshine ; but each one 
Under the dark trees seems a little sun, 
A meteor tamed ; a fix'd star gone astray 
From the silver regions of the milky way. 
"451 



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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Afar the Contadino's song is heard, 

Rude, but made sweet by distance ; — and a bird 

Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet 

I know none else that sings so sweet as it 

At this late hour ;— and then all is still :— 

Now Italy or London, which you will ! 

Next winter you must pass with me : I '11 have 
My house by that time turn'd into a grave 
Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, 
And all the dreams which our tormentors are. 

Oh that H and were there, 

With every thing belonging to them fair ! — 
We will have books ; Spanish, Italian, Greek, 



Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine. 

Yet let 's be merry : we '11 have tea and toast ; 

Custards for supper, and an endless host 

Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,, 

And other such lady-like luxuries, — 

Feasting on which we will philosophize. 

Aud we '11 have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, 

To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. 

And then we '11 talk ; — what shall we talk about ? 

Oh ! there are themes enough for many a bout 

Of thought-entangled descant ; — as to nerves, 

With cones arid parallelograms and curves, 

I 've sworn to strangle them if once they dare 

To bother me, — when you are with me there. 

And they shall never more sip laud'num 

From Helicon or Himeros;* — we'll come 

And in despite of * * * and of the devil, 

Will make our friendly philosophic revel 

Outlast the leafless time ; — till buds and flowers 

Warn the obscure, inevitable hours 

Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew ; — 

" To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." 



THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 



A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew. 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew. 
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light. 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 

The snow-drop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet. 
And their breath was mix'd with fresh odor, sent 
From tlie turf, like the voice and the instrument. 



* 'IjMcpof, from which the river Himera was named, is, 
with some slight shade of difference, a synonyme of Love. 



Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall. 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess. 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
That-the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue. 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast. 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare : 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 
As a Magnad, its moonlight-color'd cup. 
Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom. 
With golden and green light, slanting through 
Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously. 

And starry river-buds glimmer'd by. 

And around them the soft stream did glide and dance 

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss. 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze. 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. 

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells 
As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
And flowers which drooping as day droop'd too, 
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, 
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 

And from this undefiled Paradise 
The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it). 

When Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, 
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ,- 

For each one was interpenetrated 
With the light and the odor its neighbor shed, 
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, 
Wrapp'd and fiU'd by their mutual atmosphere. 
452 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



205 



But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit 
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, 
Received more than all, it loved more than ever. 
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver — 

For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ; 
Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, 
It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 

The light winds which from unsustaining wings 
Shed the music of many murmurings ; 
The beams which dart from many a star 
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ; 

The plumed insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass; 

The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, 
Then wander like spirits among the spheres. 
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears ;* 

The quivering vapors of dim noontide. 
Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, 
In which every sound, and odor, and beam, 
Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 

Each and all like ministering angels were 
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, 
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by 
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 

And when evening descended from Heaven above. 
And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, 
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep. 
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, 

And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 

drown'd 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness ; 

(Only overhead the sweet nightingale 

Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 

And snatches of its Elysian chant 

Were mix'd with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant.) 

The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Upgather'd into the bosom of rest ; 
A. sweet child weary of its delight. 
The feeblest and yet the favorite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 



There was a Power in this sweet place, 
An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, 
Was as God is to the starry scheme. 

A Lady, the wonder of her kind. 
Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind. 
Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion 
Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean. 



Tended the garden from morn to even : 
And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, 
Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth, 
Laugh'd round her footsteps up from the Earth ! 

She had no companion of mortal race, 
But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 
Told, whilst the morn kiss'd the sleep from her eyes. 
That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise : 

As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake 

Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake, 

As if yet around her he lingering were, 

Though the veil of daylight conceal'd him from her. 

Her step seem'd to pity the grass it prest ; 
You might hear by the heaving of her breast, 
That the coming and going of the wind 
Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. 

And wherever her airy footstep trod, 
Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep. 
Like a sunny storm o'er the dark-green deep. 

I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet ; 
I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 

She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
On those that were faint with the sunny beam ; 
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers. 

She lifted their heads with her tender hands, 
And sustain'd them with rods and osier bands ^ 
If the flowers had been her own infants, she 
Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 

And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
And things of obscene and unlovely forms, 
She bore in a basket of Indian woof) 
Into the rough woods far aloof. 

In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full. 
The freshest her gentle hands could pull 
For the poor banish'd insects, whose intent. 
Although they did ill, was innocent. 

But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris, 
Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that kiss 
The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she 
Make her attendant angels be. 

And many an antenatal tomb, 
Where butterflies dream of the life to come. 
She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 

This fairest creature from earliest spring 
Thus moved through the garden ministering 
All the sweet season of summer-tide. 
And ere the first leaf look'd brown — she died ! 
453 



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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
Like stars when the moon is awaken'd, were, 
Or the waves of BaijB, ere luminous 
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 

And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
Felt the sound of the funeral chant, 
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow. 
And the sobs of the mourners deep and low ; 

The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
And the silent motions of passing death. 
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank. 
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank ; 

The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass ; 
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, 
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 

The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, 
Like the corpse of her who had been its soul ; 
Which at first was lovely as if in sleep. 
Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
To make men tremble who never weep. 

Swift summer into the autumn flow'd. 
And frost in the mist of the morning rode. 
Though the noonday sun look'd clear and bright, 
Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 

The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, 
Paved the turf and the moss below. 
The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, 
Like the head and the skin of a dying man. 

And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, 
Leaf after leaf, day after day. 
Were mass'd into the common clay. 

And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red, 
And white with the whiteness of what is dead, 
Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past; 
Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 

And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, 
Out of their birth-place of ugly weeds. 
Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem, 
Which rotted into the earth with them. 

The water-blooms under the rivulet 
Fell from the stalks on which they were set ; 
And the eddies drove them here and there. 
As the winds did those of the upper air. 

Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks, 
Were bent and tangled across the walks ; 
And the leafless net-work of parasite bowers 
Mass'd into ruin, and all sweet flowers. 

Between the time oi the wind and the snow, 
All lotheliest weeds began to grow, 
Whose coarse leaves were splash'd with many a speck, 
Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. 



And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, 
And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock danlc 
Stretch'd out its long and hollow shank. 
And stifled the air till the dead wind slank. 

And plants, at whose names the verse feels loth, 
Fill'd the place with a monstrous undergrowth. 
Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue. 
Livid, and starr'd with a lurid dew. 

And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould. 
Started like mist from the wet ground cold ; 
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead 
With a spirit of growth had been animated ! 

Their mass rotted oflT them, flake by flake, 
Till the thick stalk stuck like a murderer's stake ; 
Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on high. 
Infecting the winds that wander by. 

Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 

Made the running rivulet thick and dumb, 

And at its outlet, flags huge as stakes 

Damm'd it up with roots knotted like water-snakes. 

And hour by hour, when the air was still. 
The vapors arose which have strength to kill : 
At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt. 
At night they were darkness no star could melt. 

And unctuous meteors from spray to spray 
Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
Unseen ; every branch on which they alit 
By a venomous blight was burn'd and bit. 

The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid. 
Wept, and the tears within each lid 
Of its folded leaves, which together grew. 
Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. 

For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
By the heavy ax of the blast were hewn ; 
The sap shrank to the root through every pore. 
As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 

For Winter came : the wind was his whip: 
One choppy finger was on his lip: 
He had torn the cataracts from the hills. 
And they clank'd at his girdle like manacles; 

His breath was a chain which without a sound 
The earth, and the air, and the water bound ; . 
He came, fiercely driven in his chariot-throne 
By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 

Then the weeds which were forms of living death 
Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. 
Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 

And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
The moles and the dormice died for want : 
The birds dropp'd stiflf from the frozen air. 
And were caught in the branches naked and bare. 
454 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



207 



First there came down a thawing rain, 
And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, 
Then there steam'd up a freezing dew 
Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew ; 

And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, 
Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy and stifi^ 
And snapp'd them off with his rigid griff 

When winter had gone and spring came back. 

The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 

But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and 

darnels. 
Rose like the dead from their ruin'd charnels. 

CONCLUSION. 

Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 

Whether that lady's gentle mind. 
No longer with the form combined 
Which scatter'd love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness, where it left delight, 

I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife, 
Where nothing is, but all things seem. 
And we the shadows of the dream. 

It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it. 
To own that death itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 

That garden sweet, that lady fair. 
And all sweet shapes and odors there, 
In truth have never pass'd away : 
*Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they. 

For love, and beauty, and delight. 
There is no death nor change : their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 

"T IS the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail 
Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gale : 
From the stark night of vapors the dim rain is driven, 
And whenlightning is loosed, like a deluge from heaven. 
She sees the black trunks of the water-spouts spin. 
And blend, as if heaven was mining in, 
Which they seem'd to sustain with their terrible mass 
As if ocean had sunk from beneath them : they pass 
To their graves in the deep with an earthquake of sound. 
And the waves and the thunders, made silent around. 
Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now toss'd 
Through the low-trailing rack of the tempest, is lost 
In the skirts of the thunder-cloud : now down the sweep 
Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the deep 
It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale 
Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved by the gale. 
Dim mirrors of ruin hang gleaming about ; 
While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like a rout 



Of death-flames, like whirlpools of fire-flowing iron, 
With splendor and terror the black ship environ ; 
Or like sulphur-flakes hurl'd from a mine of pale fire, 
In fountains spout o'er it. In many a spire 
The pyramid-billows, with white points of brine. 
In the cope of the hghtning inconstantly shine, 
As piercing the sky from the floor of the sea. 
The great ship seems splitting! it cracks as a tree, 
While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the blast 
Of the whirlwind that stript it of branches has past. 
The intense thunder-balls which are raining from 

heaven 
Have shatter'd its mast, and it stands black and riven. 
The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead hulk 
On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk. 
Like a corpse on the clay which is hung'ring to fold 
Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from the hold. 
One deck is burst up from the waters below, 
And it splits like the ice when the thaw-breezes blow 
O'er the lakes of the desert! Who sit on the other? 
Is that all the crew that lie burying each other, 
Like the dead in a breach, round the foremost ? Are 

those 
Twin tigers, who burst, when the waters arose. 
In the agony of terror, their chains in the hold 
(What now makes them tame, is what then made 

them bold) ; 
Who crouch'd, side by side, and have driven, like a 

crank. 
The deep grip of their claws through the vibrating 

plank ? 
Are these all? Nine weeks the tall vessel had lain 
On the windless expanse of the watery plain, 
Where the death-darting sun cast no shadow at noon. 
And there seem'd to be fire in the beams of the moon. 
Till a lead-color'd fog gather'd up from the deep, 
Whose breath was quick pestilence ; then, the cold 

sleep 
Crept, like blight through the ears of a thick field of 

corn, 
O'er the populous vessel. And even and morn, 
With their hammocks for coffins the seamen aghast 
Like dead men the dead limbs of their comrades cast 
Down the deep, which closed on them above and around, 
And the sharks and the dog-fish their grave-clothes 

unbound, 
And were glutted like Jews with this manna rain'd 

down 
From God on their wilderness. One after one 
The mariners died ; on the eve of this day, 
When the tempest was gathering in cloudy array. 
But seven remain'd. Six the thunder had smitten, 
And they lie black as mummies 01/ which Time has 

written 
His scorn of the embalraer ; the seventh, from the deck 
An oak splinter pierced through his breast and his back, 
And hung out to the tempest, a wreck on the wreck. 
No more ? At the helm sits a woman more fair 
Than heaven, when, unbinding its star-braided hair. 
It sinks with the sun on the earth and the sea. 
She clasps a bright child on her upgather'd knee. 
It laughs at the lightning, it mocks the mix'd thunder 
Of the air and the sea, with desire and with wonder 
It is beckoning the tigers to rise and come near, 
It would play with those eyes where the radiance of fear 
Is outshining the meteors ; its bosom beats high. 
The heart-fire of pleasure has kindled its eye ; 
While its mother's is lustreless. " Smile not, my child, 
But sleep deeply and sweetly, and so be beguiled 
455 



208 



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Of the pang that awaits us, whatever that be, 
So dreadful since thou must divide it with me ! 
Dream, sleep ! this pale blossom, thy cradle and bed, 
Will it rock thee not, infant? 'Tis beating with dread! 
Alas ! what is life, what is death, what are we. 
That when the ship sinks we no longer may be ? 
What! to see thee no more, and to feel thee no more? 
To be after life what we have been before ? 
Not to touch those sweet hands? Not to look on those 

eyes. 
Those lips, and that hair, all that smiling disguise 
Thou yet wearest, sweet spirit, which I, day by day, 
Have so long call'd my child, but which now fades away 
Like a rainbow, and I the fallen shower?" Lo! the 

ship 
Is settling, it topples, the leeward ports dip ; 
The tigers leap up when they feel the slow brine 
Crawling inch by inch on them ; hair, ears, limbs, 

and eyne. 
Stand rigid with horror; a loud, long, hoarse cry 
Bursts at once from their vitals tremendously. 
And 'tis borne down the mountainous vale of the 

wave. 
Rebounding, like thunder, from crag to cave, 
Mix'd with the clash of the lashing rain. 
Hurried on by the might of the hurricane : 
The hurricane came from the west, and past on 
By the path of the gate of the eastern sun. 
Transversely dividing the stream of the storm ; 
As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form 
Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes of the waste. 
Black as a cormorant the screaming blast. 
Between ocean and heaven, like an ocean, past, 
Till it came to the clouds on the verge of the world, 
Which, based on the sea and to heaven upcurl'd, 
Like columns and walls did surround and sustain 
The dome of the tempest ; it rent them in twain, 
As a flood rends its barriers of mountainous crag : 
And the dense clouds in many a ruin and rag, 
Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake has past. 
Like the dust of its fall, on the whirlwind are cast ; 
They are scatter'd like foam on the torrent ; and where 
The wind has burst out through the chasm, from the air 
Of clear morning, the beams of the sunrise flow in, 
Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline. 
Banded armies of light and of air ; at one gate 
They encounter, but interpenetrate. 
And that breach in the tempest is widening away. 
And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day. 
And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings, 
LuU'd by the motion and murmurings, 
And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea, 
And overhead glorious, but dreadful to see. 
The wrecks of the tempest, like vapors of gold. 
Are consuming in sunrise. The heap'd waves behold 
The deep calm of blue heaven dilating above. 
And, like passions made still by the presence of Love, 
Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide 
Tremulous with soft influence ; extending its tide 
From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle, 
Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with heaven's 

azure smile. 
The wide world of waters is vibrating. Where 
Is the ship ? On the verge of the wave where it lay 
One tiger is mingled in ghastly afl^ray 
With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of the 

battle 

Stain the clear air with sun-bows ; the jar, and the 
rattle 



Of solid bones crush'd by the infinite stress 

Of the snake's adamantine voluptuousness ; 

And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains 

Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the veins, 

Swoln with rage, strength, and effort ; the whirl and 

the splash 
As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash 
The thin winds and soft waves into thunder! the 

screams 
And hissings crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean-streams, 
Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion, 
A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean. 
The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other 
Is winning his way from the fate of his brother. 
To his own with the speed of despair. Lo ! a boat 
Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of though.' 
Urge on the keen keel, the brine foams. At the stera 
Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets burn 
In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on 
To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone, 
'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone. 
Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. 
With her left hand she grasps it impetuously. 
With her right she sustains her fair infant. Death, Fear, 
Love, Beauty, are mix'd in the atmosphere. 
Which trembles and burns with the fervor of dread 
Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head, 
Like a meteor of light o'er the waters! her child 
Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring : so smiled 
The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and brother 
The child and the ocean still smile on each other. 
Whilst 



ODE TO HEAVEN. 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 



FIRST SPIRIT. 

Palace-roof of cloudless nights ! 
Paradise of golden lights ! 

Deep, immeasurable, vast, 
Which art now, and which wert then ! 

Of the present and the past. 
Of the eternal where and when, 

Presence-chamber, temple, home. 

Ever-canopying dome. 

Of acts and ages yet to come ! 

Glorious shapes have life in thee, 
Earth, and all earth's company ; 

Living globes which ever throng 
Thy deep chasms and wildernesses ; 

And green worlds that glide along ; 
And swift stars with flashing tresses ; 

And icy moons most cold and bright. 

And mighty suns beyond the night. 

Atoms of intensest light. 

Even thy name is as a god, 
Heaven ! for thou art the abode 

Of that power which is the glass 
Wherein man his nature sees. 

Generations as they pass 
Worship thee with bended knees. 

Their unremaining gods and they 

Like a river roll away : 

Thou remainest such alway. 
456 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



209 



SECOND SPIRIT. 

Thou art but the mind's first chamber, 

Round which its young fancies clamber, 
Like weak insects in a cave. 

Lighted up by stalactites ; 
But the portal of the grave, 

Where a world of new delights 
Will make thy best glories seem 
But a dim and noonday gleam 
From the shadow of a dream ! 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with scorn 
At your presumption, atom-born! 

What is heaven ? and what are ye 
Who its brief expanse inherit ? 

What are suns and spheres which flee 
With the instinct of that spirit 

Of which ye are but a part ? 

Drops which Nature's mighty heart 

Drives through thinnest veins. Depart ! 

What is heaven ? a globe of dew, 

Filling in the morning new 
Some eyed flower, whose yoimg 

On an uniraagined world : 
Constellated suns unshaken, 

Orbits measureless are furl'd 
In that frail and fading sphere. 
With ten millions gather'd there. 
To tremble, gleam, and disappear. 



leaves waken 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND.* 

L 

I O WILD West Wind ! thou breath of Autumn's being! 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
j Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

I Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O, thou, 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
I (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
I With living hues and odors, plain and hill : 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O, hear ! 



* This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a 
wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day 
when that tempestuous wii^d, whose temperature is at 
once mild and animating, was collecting the vapors which 
pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, 
at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attend- 
ed by that magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar to 
the Cisalpine regions. 

The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the 
third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation 
at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympa- 
thizes with that of the land in the change of seasons, and is 
consequently influenced by the winds which announce it. 
3H 



IL 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commo- 
tion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : O, hear ! 



III. 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
LuU'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrov^Ti with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! — Thou, 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea blooms, and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves : O, hear ! 



IV. 
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O, uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

I 
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision ; I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 

V. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
457 



210 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
Sweet, though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce. 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0, wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 



AN ODE, 

WRITTEN, OCTOBER, 1819, BEFORE THE SPANIARDS 
HAD RECOVERED THEIR LIBERTY. 

Arise, arise, arise ! 
There is blood on the earth that denies ye 
bread ; 
Be your wounds like eyes 
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. 
What other grief were it just to pay ? 
Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they ; 
Who said they were slain on the battle day ? 



Awaken, awaken, awaken ! 
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes ; 

Be the cold chains shaken 
To the dust where your kindred repose, repose ! 
Their bones in the grave will start and move, 
When they hear the voices of those they love, 
Most loud in the holy combat above. 



Wave, wave high the banner ! 
When freedom is riding to conquest by : 

Though the slaves that fan her 
Be famine and toil, giving sigh for sigh. 
And ye who attend her imperial car, 
Lift not your hands in the banded war, 
But in her defence whose children ye are. 



Glory, glory, glory. 
To those who have greatly suffer'd and done! 

Never name in story 
Was greater than that which ye shall have won. 
Conquerors have conquer'd their foes alone. 
Whose revenge, pride, and power they have over- 
thrown : 
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. 

Bind, bind every brow 
With coronals of violet, ivy, and pine : 

Hide the blood-stains now 
With hues which sweet nature has made divine 
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity: 
But let not the pansy among them be ; 
Ye were injured, and that means memory. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 



Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner torn but flying, 
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind. 

Byron. 



L 

A glorious people vibrated again 

The lightning of the nations ; Liberty 
From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er Spain, 

Scattering contagious fire into the sky, 
Gleam'd. My soul spum'd the chains of its dismay, 
And, in the rapid plumes of song. 
Clothed itself, sublime and strong; 
As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among. 
Hovering inverse o'er its accustom'd prey ; 

Till from its station in the heaven of fame 
The Spirit's whirlwind rapt it, and the ray 
Of the remotest sphere of living flame 
Which paves the void was from behind it flung 
As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there came 
A voice out of the deep : I will record the same 

n. 

The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth : 

The burning stars of the abyss were hurl'd 

Into the depths of heaven. The daedal earth. 

That island in the ocean of the world, 
Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air ; 
But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a curse, 
For thou wert not : but power from worst proaucxng 
worse. 
The spirit of the beasts was kindled there. 
And of the birds, and of the watery forms, 
And there was war among them, and despair 

Within them, raging without truce or terms : 
The bosom of their violated nurse 

Groan'd, for beasts warr'd on beasts, and worms 

on worms. 
And men on men ; each heart was as a hell of 
storms. 

III. 

Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied 

His generations under the pavilion ' 

Of the Sun's throne : palace and pyramid, 

Temple and prison, to many a swarming million. 
Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. 
This human living multitude 
Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude. 
For thou wert not; but o'er the populous solitude, 
Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves. 

Hung tyranny ; beneath, sate deified 
The sister-pest, congregator of slaves ; 
Into the shadow of her pinions wide. 
Anarchs and priests who feed on gold and blood. 
Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed. 
Drove the astonish'd herds of men from every side 

IV. 

The nodding promontories, and blue isles. 

And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves 

Of Greece, bask'd glorious in the open smiles 
Of favoring heaven : from their enchanted caves 
458 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



211 



Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 
On the unapprehensive wild. 
The vine, the corn, the olive mild, 
Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; 
And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, 

Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, 
I Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, 

Art's deathless dreams lay veil'd by many a vein 
Of Parian stone ; and yet a speechless child. 
Verse murmur'd, and Philosophy did strain 
i Her lidless eyes for thee ; when o'er the ^gean main 



Athens arose : a city such as vision 

Builds from the purple crags and silver towers 
Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 

Of kingliest masonry : the ocean-floors 
Pave it ; the evening sky pavilions it ; 
Its portals are inhabited 
By thunder-zoned winds, each head 
Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded, 
A divine work ! Athens diviner yet 

Gleam'd with its crest of columns, on the will 
Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set ; 
For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill 
Peopled with forms that mock the eternal dead 
In marble immortality, that hill 
i Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle 



VL 
Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 

Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay 
Immovably unquiet, and for ever 

It trembles, but it cannot pass away ! 
The voices of thy bards and sages thunder 

With an earth-awakening blast 
Through the caverns of the past ; 
Religion veils her eyes ; Oppression shrinks aghast : 
A winged sound of joy, and love and wonder, 
Which soars where Expectation never flew, 
Rending the veil of space and time asunder ! 
One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and 
dew; 
One sun illumines heaven ; one spirit vast 
With life and love makes chaos ever new. 
As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew. 



VII. 

Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest, 
Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmaean Maenad,* 

She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest 
From that Elysian food was yet unwean'd ; 

And many a deed of terrible uprightness 
By thy sweet love was sanctified ; 
And in thy smile, and by thy side. 

Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. 

But when tears stain'd thy robe of vestal whiteness. 
And gold profaned thy capitolian throne, 
Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness, 
The senate of the tyrants : they sunk prone 

Slaves of one tyrant : Palatinus sigh'd 
Faint echoes of Ionian song ; that tone 
Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown. 



VIIL 
From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill, 
Or piny promontory of the Arctic main. 
Or utmost islet inaccessible, 

Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign. 
Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks. 
And every Naiad's ice-cold urn. 
To talk in echoes sad and stern, 
Of that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn? 
For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks 

Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Druid's sleep. 
What if the tears rain'd through thy shatter'd lockii 
Were quickly dried ? for thou didst groan, not 
weep, 
When from its sea of death to kill and bum, 
The Galilean serpent forth did creep. 
And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. 



IX. 

A thousand years the Earth cried. Where art thou ? 

And then the shadow of thy coming fell 
On Saxon Alfred's olive-cinctured brow : 

And many a warrior-peopled citadel. 
Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, 
Arose in sacred Italy, 
Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea 
Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crown'd 
majesty ; 
That multitudinous anarchy did sweep, 

And burst around their walls, like idle foam. 
Whilst from the human spirit's deepest deep. 

Strange melody with love and awe struck dumb 
Dissonant arms ; and Art, which cannot die. 
With divine wand traced on our earthly home 
Fit imagery to pave heaven's everlasting dome. 



Thou huntress swifter than the Moon ! thou terror 

Of the world's wolves ! thou bearer of the quiver. 
Whose sun-like shafts pierce tempest-winged Error, 

As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever 
In the calm regions of the orient day ! 

Luther caught thy wakening glance : 
Like lightning, from his leaden lance 
Reflected, it dissolved the Aasions of the trance 
In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay ; 

And England's prophets hail'd thee as their queen. 
In songs whose music cannot pass away, 
Though it must flow for ever : not unseen 
Before the spirit-sighted countenance 

Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene 
Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. 



* See the Bacchae of Euripides. 



XI. 

The eager hours and unreluctant years 

As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood. 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears, 

Darkening each other with their multitude. 
And cried aloud, Liberty! Indignation 
Answer'd Pity from her cave ; 
Death grew pale within the grave. 
And desolation howl'd to the destroyer, Save ! 
When Uke heaven's sun, girt by the exhalation 

Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise, 
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation 
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212 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Like shadows : as if day had cloven the skies 
At dreaming midnight o'er the western wave, 
Men started, staggering with a glad surprise, 
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 

XII. 

Thou heaven of earth ! what spells could pall thee then. 

In ominous eclipse ? A thousand years, 
Bred from the slime of deep oppression's den. 

Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears, 
Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away. 
How like Bacchanals of blood 
Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood 
Destruction's sceptred slaves, and folly's mitred brood ! 
When one, like them, but mightier far than they, 

The Anarch of thine own bewilder'd powers, 
Rose : armies mingled in obscure array 

Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred 
bowers 
Of serene heaven. He, by the past pursued. 
Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours. 
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral 
towers. 

XIII. 

England yet sleeps : was she not call'd of old ? 

Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder 
Vesuvius wakens yEtna, and the cold 

Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder : 
O'er the lit waves every iEolian isle 
From Pithecusa to Pelorus 
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus : 
They cry. Be dim, ye lamps of heaven suspended 
o'er us. 

Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile 
And they dissolve ; but Spain's were links of steel. 
Till bit to dust by virtue's keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny ! appeal 
To the eternal years enthroned before us, 
In the dim West ; impress us from a seal, 
All ye have thought and done ! Time cannot dare 
conceal. 

XIV. 
Tomb of Arminius ! render up thy dead, 

Till, like a standard from a watch-tower's staff. 
His soul may stream over the tyrant's head ! 

Thy victory shall be his epitaph. 
Wild Bacchanal of truth's mysterious wine. 
King-deluded Germany, 
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope ? thou art already free ! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine 

And glorious world ! thou flowery wilderness ! 
Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 

Where desolation, clothed with loveliness. 
Worships the thing thou wert ! O Italy, 
Gather thy blood into thy heart ; repress 
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. 

XV. 
O, that the free would stamp the impious name 

Of * * * * into the dust ! or write it there. 
So that this blot upon the page of fame 

Were as a serpent's path, which the light air 
and the flat sands close behind ! 
Ye the oracle have heard : 



Left the victory-flashing sword, 
And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word, 
Which weak itself as stubble, yet can bind 

Into a mass, irrefragably firm, 
The axes and the rods which awe mankind ; 
The sound has poison in it, 'tis the sperm 
Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorr'd ; 
Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term. 
To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. 

XVI. 

O, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle 

Such lamps within the dome of this dim world. 
That the pale name of Priest might shrink and 
dwindle 
Into the hell from which it first was hurl'd, 
A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure ; 
Till human thoughts might kneel alone 
Each before the judgment-throne 
Of its own aweless soul, or of the power unknown ! 
O, that the words which make the thoughts obscure 
From which they spring, as clouds of glimmering 
dew 
From a white lake blot heaven's blue portraiture. 
Were stript of their thin masks and various hue, 
And frowns and smiles and splendors not their own, 
Till in the nakedness of false and true 
They stand before their Lord, each to receive its due. 

XVII. 
He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever 
Can be between the cradle and the grave, 
Crown'd him the King of Life. O vain endeavor ! 

If on his own high will, a willing slave. 
He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor. 
What if earth can clothe and feed 
Amplest millions at their need, 
And power in thought be as the tree within the seed 
Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor 

Diving on fiery wings to Nature's throne. 

Checks the great mother stooping to caress her. 

And cries : Give me, thy child, dominion 

Over all heighth and depth ? if Life can breed 

New wants, and wealth from those who toil and groan 

Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for one. 

XVIII. 
Come Thou, but lead out of the inmost cave 

Of man's deep spirit, as the morning-star 
Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave. 

Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car 
Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame ; 
Comes she not, and come ye not. 
Rulers of eternal thought. 
To judge, with solemn truth, life's ill-apportion'd lot? 
Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame 

Of what has been, the Hope of what will be ! 
O, Liberty ! if such could be thy name, 

Wert thou disjoin'd from these, or they from thee : 
If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought 

By blood or tears, have not the wise and free 
Wept tears, and blood like tears ? The solemn harmony 

XIX. 
Paused, and the spirit of that mighty singing 
To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn ; 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



213 



Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely winging 
Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, 
Sinks headlong through the aerial golden light 
On the heavy-sounding plain, 
When the bolt has pierced its brain ; 
As summer clouds dissolve, unburthen'd of their rain ; 
As a far taper fades with fading night. 

As a brief insect dies with dying day, 
My song, its pinions disarray'd of might, 
Droop'd ; o'er it closed the echoes far away 
Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, 

As waves which lately paved his watery way 
Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempestuous 
play. 



ODE TO NAPLES* 



EPODE I. a. 



I STOOD within the city disinterr'd ;t 

And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls 
Of spirits passing through the streets ; and heard 
The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals 
Thrill through those roofless halls ; 
The oracular thunder penetrating shook 

The listening soul in my suspended blood ; 
I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke — 
I felt, but heard not: — through white columns 
glow'd 
The isle-sustaining Ocean flood, 
A plane of light between two Heavens of azure : 

Around me gleam'd many a bright sepulchre 
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure 
Were to spare Death, had never made erasure ; 
But every living lineament was clear 
As in the sculptor's thought ; and there 
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and pine. 

Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded snow, 
Seera'd only not to move and grow 
Because the crystal silence of the air 

Weigh'd on their life ; even as the Power divine, 
Which then luU'd all things, brooded upon mine. 

EPODE II. a. 
Then gentle winds arose. 
With many a mingled close 
Of wild iEolian sound and mountain odor keen ; 
And where the Baiaen ocean 
Welters with air-like motion. 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green. 
Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves, 
Even as the ever stormless atmosphere 
Floats o'er the Elysian realm. 
It bore me like an Angel, o'er the waves 

Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy air 
No storm can overwhelm ; 
I sail'd, where ever flows 
Under the calm Serene 
A spirit of deep emotion, 



* The Author has connected many recollections of his 
visit to Pompeii and Baise with the enthusiasm excited by 
the intelligence of the proclamation of a Constitutional 
Government at IVaples. This has given a tinge of pic- 
turesque and descriptive imagery to the introductory 
Epodes which depicture these scenes, and some of the 
majestic feelings permanently connected with the scene 
of this animating event.— Jiuthor's Mote. 

\ Pompeii. 



From the unknown graves 

Of the dead kings of Melody.l 
Shadowy Aornos darken'd o'er the helm 
The horizontal ether ; heaven stript bare 
Its depths over Elysium, where the prow 
Made the invisible water white as snow ; 
From that Typhsean mount, Inarime 
There stream'd a sunlike vapor, like the standard 

Of some ethereal host ; 

Whilst from all the coast. 
Louder and louder, gathering round, there wander'd 
Over the oracular woods and divine sea 
Prophesyings which grew articulate — 
They seize rae — I must speak them — be they fate ! 

STROPHE a. 1. 

Naples ! thou Heart of men which ever pantest 

Naked beneath the lidless eye of heaven ! 
Elysian City, which to calm enchantest 

The mutinous air and sea ! they round thee, even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruin'd Paradise 

Long lost, late won, and yet but half regain'd! 
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice, 
Which armed Victory oflfers up unstain'd 
To Love, the flower-enchain'd ! 
Thou which wert once, and then did cease to be, 
Now art, and henceforth ever shalt be, free. 
If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can avail. 
Hail, hail, all hail! 

STROPHE /?. 2. 

Thou youngest giant birth \ 

Which from the groaning earth 
Leap'st, clothed in armor of impenetrable scale ! 

Last of the Intercessors ! 

Who 'gainst the Crown'd Transgressors 
Pleadest before God's love ! Array'd in Wisdom's mail. 

Wave thy lightning lance in mirth ; 

Nor let thy high heart fail. 
Though from their himdred gates the leagued Op- 
pressors 

With hurried legions move ! 

Hail, hail, all hail! 

ANTISTROPHE a. 

What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme 

Freedom and thee ? thy shield is as a mirror 
To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce gleam 

To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer, 
A new Acteon's error 
Shall their's have been — devour'd by their own 
hounds ! 

Be thou like the imperial Basilisk, 
Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds ! 

Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk 

Aghast she pass from the Earth's disk : 
Fear not, but gaze — for freemen mightier grow. 
And slaves, more feeble, gazing on their foe. 

If Hope and Truth and Justice may avail. 

Thou shalt be great. — All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE jS 2. 

From Freedom's form divine. 
From Nature's inmost shrine, 



X Homer and Virgil. 
461 



214 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strip every impious gawd, rend Error veil by veil : 

O'er Ruin desolate, 

O'er Falsehood's fallen state, 
Sit thou sublime, una wed ; be the Destroyer pale ! 

And equal laws be thine, 

And winged words let sail, 
Freighted with truth even from the throne of God ! 

That wealth, surviving fate, 

Be thou.— All hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE a. y. 

Didst thou not start to hear Spain's thrilling psean 

From land to land re-echoed solemnly, 
Till silence became music ? From the uEean* 
To the cold Alps, eternal Italy 
Starts to hear thine ! The Sea 
Which paves the desert streets of Venice laughs 

In light and music ; widow'd Genoa wan, 
By moonlight spells ancestral epitaphs. 
Murmuring, where is Doria ? fair Milan, 
Within whose veins long ran 
The viper's! palsying venom, lifts her heel 
To bruise his head. The signal and the seal 
(If Hope and Truth and Justice can avail) 
Art Thou of all these hopes. — O hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE j3. y. 

Florence ! beneath the sun, 

Of cities fairest one. 
Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expectation ; 

From eyes of quenchless hope 

Rome tears the priestly cope, 
As ruling once by power, so now by admiration, 

An athlete stript to run 

From a remoter station 
For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore, — 
As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail, 
So now may Fraud and Wrong ! O hail ! 

EPODE I. j8. 

Hear ye the march as of the Earth-bom Forms 

Array'd against the ever-living Gods ? 
The crash and darkness of a thousand storms 
Bursting their inaccessible abodes 

Of crags and thunder-clouds ? 
See ye the banners blazon'd to the day. 

Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride ? 
Dissonant threats kill Silence far away. 

The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden wide 
With iron light is dyed. 
The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions 

Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating ; 
A hundred tribes nourish'd on strange religions 
And lawless slaveries, — down the aerial regions 
Of the white Alps, desolating, 
Famish'd wolves that bide no waiting, 
Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, 
Trampling our column'd cities into dust, 

Their dull and savage lust 
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiating — 
They come ! The fields they tread look black and 

hoary 
With fire — from their red feet the streams run gory ' 



* iEiEa, the Island of Circe. 

t The viper was the armorial device of the Visconti, 
tyrants of Milan. 



EPODE II. /?. 

Great Spirit, deepest Love ! 
Which rulest and dost move 
All things which live and are, within the Italian shore; 
Who spreadest heaven around it, 
Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it ; 
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor, 
Spirit of beauty ! at whose soft command 
The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison 
From the Earth's bosom chill ; 
O bid those beams be each a blinding brand 
Of lightning ! bid those showers be dews of poison ! 
Bid the Earth's plenty kiM ! 
Bid thy bright Heaven above. 
Whilst light and darkness bound it, 
Be their tomb who plann'd 
To make it ours and thine ! 
Or, with thine harmonizing ardors fill 
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon 
Thy lamp feeds every twilight wave with fire — 
Be man's high hope and unextinct desire 
The instrument to work thy will divine ! 
Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leopards, 
And frowns and fears from Thee, 
Would not more swiftly flee 
Than Celtic wolves.^from the Ausonian shepherds. — 
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine 
Thou yieldest or withholdest. Oh let be 
This city of thy worship ever free ! 
Septemher, 1820. 



THE CLOUD. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one. 
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast. 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. 

Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



215 



The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning-star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be- 
neath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair. 

Is the million-color'd bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

1^ r§ i.. 



Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singesL 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- 
flow'd. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 

Like a high-bom maiden 

In a palace tower. 

Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 

With music sweet as love, which overflows her 

bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from 
the view : 

Like a rose embower'd 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflower'd. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal snowers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers. 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 
# 463 



hM 



4 .JU J 



•.'1*1 ''Hi^ 



216 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Match'd with thine would be all 

But an empty vaimt — 
A thing wherein we fe6l there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 
pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things bom 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 



Teach me half the 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



AN EXHORTATION. 

Chameleons feed on light and air ; 

Poets' food is love and fame : 
If in this wide world of care 

Poets could but find the same 
With as little toil as they. 

Would tHey ever change their hue 

As the light chameleons do, 
Suiting it to every ray 
Twenty times a-day ? 



Poets are on this cold earth, 

As chameleons might be. 
Hidden from their early birth 

In a cave beneath the sea. 
Where light is, chameleons change ; 

Where love is not, poets do : 

Fame is love disguised — if few 
Find either, never think it strange 
That poets range. 

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power 

A poet's free and heavenly mind : 
If bright chameleons should devour 

Any food but beams and wind, 
They would grow as earthly soon 

As their brother lizards are. 

Children of a sunnier star, 
Spirits from beyond the moon, 
O, refuse the boon ! 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats, though unseen, among us ; visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower ; 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain 
shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled, 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty ! that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ? 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our stale, 

This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river ; 

Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown ; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, why man has such a scope 

For love and hate, despondency and hope ? 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given : 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavor : 
Frail spells, whose utter'd charm might not avail to 
sever, 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy hght alone, like fhist o'er mountains driven. 
Or music by the night-wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument. 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, hke clouds, depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent. 

Didst thou, imknown and awful as thou art, 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



217 



Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart. 

Thou messenger of sympathies 

That wax and wane in lovers' eyes ; 
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 

Like darkness to a dying flame ! 

Depart not as thy shadow came ; 

Depart not, lest the grave should be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 

Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead : 
I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth is fed : 

I was not heard : I saw them not. 

When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to bring 

News of birds and blossoming. 

Sudden, thy shadow fell on me : 
I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy ! 

I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers 

To thee and thine : have I not kept the vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have in vision'd 
bowers 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 

Outwatch'd with me the envious night: 
They know that never joy illumed my brow, 

Unlink'd with hope that thou wouldst free 

This world from its dark slavery, 

That thou, O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past : there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard or seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 

Its calm, to one who worships thee. 
And every form containing thee, 

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human-kind. 



MARIANNE'S DREAM. 

A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, 
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray ! 

I know the secrets of the air. 

And things lost in the glare of day, 

Which I can make the sleeping see, 

If they will put their trust in me. 

And thou shalt know of things unknown 
If thou wilt let me rest between 

The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown 
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen : 

And half in hope, and half in fright. 

The Lady closed her eyes so bright. 
31 



At first all deadly shapes were drivea 
Tumultuously across her sleep. 

And o'er the vast cope of bending Heaven 
All ghastly visaged clouds did sweep ; 

And the Lady ever look'd to spy 

If the gold sun shone forth on high. 



And as towards the east she turn'd. 
She saw aloft in the morning air. 

Which now with hues of sunrise bum'd, 
A great black Anchor rising there ; 

And wherever the Lady turn'd her eyes, 

It hung before her in the skies. 



The sky was blue as the summer sea, 
The depths were cloudless overhead, 

The air was calm as it could be, 

There was no sight or sound of dread. 

But that black Anchor floating still 

Over the piny eastern hill. 

The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear. 

To see that Anchor ever hanging. 
And veil'd her eyes ; she then did hear 
The sound as of a dim low clanging. 
And look'd abroad if she might know 
Was it aught else, or but the flow 
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro. 



There was a mist in the sunless air. 

Which shook as it were with an earthquake's 
shock, 
But the very weeds that blossom'd there 

Were moveless, and each mighty rock 
Stood on its basis stedfastly; 
The Anchor was seen no more on high. 

But piled around, with summits hid 

In lines of cloud at intervals. 
Stood many a mountain pyramid. 

Among whose everlasting walls 
Two mighty cities shone, and ever 
Through the red mist their domes did quiver, 

On two dread mountains, from whose crest, 
Might seem, the eagle, for her brood. 

Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest, 
Those tower-encircled cities stood. 

A vision strange such towers to see, 

Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, 

Where human art could never be. 

And columns framed of marble white, 

And giant fanes, dome over dome 
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright 

With workmanship, which could not come 
From touch of mortal instrument, 
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent 
From its own shapes magnificent. 

But still the Lady heard that clang 

Filling the wide air far away; 
And still the mist whose light did hang 

Among the mountains shook alway, 
465 



218 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 


Of his own mind did there endure 


As, half in joy and half aghast, 


After the touch, whose power had braided 


On those high domes her look she cast. 


Such grace, was in some sad change faded. 


Sudden, from out that city sprung 


She look'd, the flames were dim, the flood 


A light that made the earth grow red ; 


Grew tranquil as a woodland river 


Two flames that each with quivering tongue 


Winding through hills in solitude ; 


Lick'd its high domes, and overhead 


Those marble shapes then seem'd to quiver 


Among those mighty towers and fanes 


And their fair limbs to float in motion. 


Dropp'd fire, as a volcano rains 


Tiike weeds unfolding in the ocean. 


Its sulphurous ruin on the plains. 






And their lips moved ; one seem'd to speak. 


And hark ! a rush as if the deep 


When suddenly the mountain crackt. 


Had burst its bounds ; she look'd behind, 


And through the chasm the flood did break 


And saw over the western steep 


With an earth-uplifting cataract : 


A raging flood descend, and wind 


The statues gave a joyous scream. 


Through that wide vale ; she felt no fear, 


And on its wings the pale thin dream 


But said within herself, 'tis clear 


Lifted the Lady from the stream. 


These towers are Nature's own, and she 




To save them has sent forth the sea. 


The dizzy flight of that phantom pale 




Waked the fair Lady from her sleep. 


And now those raging billows came 


And she arose, while from the veil 


Where that fair Lady sate, and she 


Of her dark eyes the dream did creep. 


Was borne towards the showering flame 


And she walk'd about as one who knew 


By the wild waves heap'd tumultuously, 


That sleep has sights as clear and true 


And on a little plank, the flow 


As any waking eyes can view. 


Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro. 


Marlow, 1817. 



The waves were fiercely vomited 
From every tower and every dome, 

And dreary light did widely shed 
O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, 

Beneath the smoke which hung its night 

On the stain'd cope of Heaven's light. 

The plank whereon that Lady sate 

Was driven through the chasms, about and about, 
Between the peaks so desolate 

Of the drowning mountain, in and out. 
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails — 
While the flood was filling those hollow vales. 

At last her plank an eddy crost. 

And bore her to the city's wall. 
Which now the flood had reach'd almost : 

It might the stoutest heart appal 
To hear the fire roar and hiss 
Through the domes of those mighty palaces. 

The eddy whirl'd her round and round 
Before a gorgeous gate, which stood 

Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound 
Its aery arch with light like blood ; 

She look'd on that gate of marble clear. 

With wonder that extinguish'd fear. 

For it was fiU'd with sculptures rarest, 
Of forms most beautiful and strange. 

Like nothing human, but the fairest 
Of vdnged shapes, whose legions range 

Throughout the sleep of those that are, 

like this same Lady, good and fair. 

And as she look'd, still lovelier grew 

Those marble forms ; — the sculptor sure 
Was a strong spirit, and the hue 



MONT BLANC. 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNL 
I. 

The everlasting universe of things' 
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves. 
Now dark — now glittering — now reflecting gloom- 
Now lending splendor, where from secret springs 
The source of human thought its tribute brings 
Of waters, — with a sound but half its own, 
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone. 
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever. 
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river 
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. 

IL 

Thus thou. Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ravine — 
Thou many-color'd, many-voiced vale. 
Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail 
Fast clouds, shadows, and sunbeams : awful scene. 
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down 
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne. 
Bursting through these dark mountains, like the flame 
Of lightning through the tempest ; thou dost lie, 
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, 
Children of elder time, in whose devotion 
The chainless winds still come and ever came 
To drink their odors, and their mighty swinging 
To hear — an old and solemn harmony : 
Thine earthly rainbows stretch'd across the sweep 
Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
Robes some unsculptured image ; the strange sleep 
Which, when the voices of the desert fail, 
Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; — 
Thy caverns, echoing to the Arve's commotion 
A loud lone sound, no other sound can tame : 
466 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



219 



Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, 
Thou art the path of that unresting sound — 
Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on thee 
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
To muse on my own separate phantasy, 
My own, my human mind, which passively 
Now renders and receives fast influencings, 
Holding an unremitting interchange 
With the clear universe of things around ; 
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings 
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest 
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, 
In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
Seeking among the shadows that pass by. 
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, 
Some phantom, some faint image ; till the breast 
From which they fled recalls them, thou art there ! 

III. 
Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is slumber. 
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber 
Of those who wake and live. — I look on high ; 
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd 
The veil of life and death ? or do I lie 
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep 
Spread far around and inaccessibly 
Its circles ? For the very spirit fails, 
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep 
That vanishes among the viewless gales ! 
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 
Mont Blanc appears, — still, snowy, and serene- 
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms 
Pile around it, ice and rock ; broad vales between 
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps. 
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread 
And wind among the accumulated steeps ; 
A desert peopled by the storms alone. 
Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, 
And the wolf tracks her there — how hideously 
Its shapes are heap'd around ! rude, bare, and high. 
Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven. — Is this the scene 
Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her young 
Ruin ? Were these their toys ? or did a sea 
Of fire envelop once this silent snow ? 
None can reply — all seems eternal now. 
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, 
So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
But for such faith with nature reconciled : 
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal 
I Large codes of fraud and woe ; not understood 
I By all, but which the wise, and great, and good 
j Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. 



IV. 
The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams. 
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell 
Within the daedal earth ; lightning, and rain, 
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane. 
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams 
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 
Holds every future leaf and flower ; — the bound 
With which from that detested trance they leap ; 
The works and ways of man, their death and birth, 
And that of him and all that his may be ; 



All things that move and breathe with toil and sound 

Are born and die, revolve, subside and swell. 

Power dwells apart in its tranquillity. 

Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 

And this, the naked countenance of earth. 

On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains. 

Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, 

Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far 

fountains. 
Slow rolling on ; there, many a precipice 
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power 
Have piled — dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, 
A city of death, distinct with many a tower 
And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky 
Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines are strewing 
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil 
Branchless and shatter'd stand ; the rocks, drawn down 
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown 
The limits of the dead and living world. 
Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place 
Of insects, beasts, and birds becomes its spoil ; 
Their food and their retreat for ever gone, 
So much of life and joy is lost. The race 
Of man flies far in dread ; his work and dwelling 
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, 
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves 
Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam. 
Which, from those secret chasms in tumult welling. 
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, 
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever 
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, 
Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air. 

V. 

Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : — the power is there, 
The still and solemn power of many sights 
And many sounds, and much of life and death. 
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights. 
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend 
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds them there. 
Nor when the flakes bum in the sinking sun, \ 

Or the star-beams dart through them : — Winds contend v 
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath 
Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes 
Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 
Over the snow. The secret strength of things 
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome 
Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea. 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 
Switzerland, June 23, 1816. 



ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI, 

IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY. 

It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky. 

Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine ; 

Below, far lands are seen but tremblingly ; 
Its horror and its beauty are divine. 

Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie 

Loveliness like a shadow, from which shrine, 
467 



220 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, 
The agonies of anguish and of death. 

Yet it is less tlie horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone ; 

Whereon the lineaments of that dead face 
Are graven, till the characters be grown 

Into itself, and thought no more can trace ; 
'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown 

Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain, 

Which humanize and harmonize the strain. 

And from its head as from one body grow, 
As [ ] grass out of a watery rock, 

Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow, 
And their long tangles in each other lock, 

And with unending involutions show 

Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock 

The torture and the death within, and saw 

The solid air with many a ragged jaw. 

And from a stone beside, a poisonous eft 
Peeps idly into these Gorgonian eyes ; 

Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft 
Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise 

Out of the cave this hideous light had cleft. 
And he comes hastening like a moth that hies 

After a taper ; and the midnight sky 

Flares, a light more dread than obscurity. 

'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror; 

For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare 
Kindled by that inextricable error. 

Which makes a thrilling vapor of the air 
Become a [ ] and ever-shifting mirror 

Of all the beauty and the terror there — 
A woman's countenance, with serpent locks, 
Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks. 

Florence, 1819. 



SONG. ' 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee nOt 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd ; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure. 
Thou wilt never come for pity. 

Thou wilt come for pleasure : 



Pity then will cut away 

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, 

And the starry night, 
Autumn evening, and the mom 
When the golden mists are born. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms, 

Every thing almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise and good. 

Between thee and me 
What diflference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

I love Love — though he has wings, 

And hke light can flee. 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Thou art love and life ! O come. 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



TO CONST ANTIA, 

SINGING. 

Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die. 

Perchance were death indeed ! — Constantia, turn ! 
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie. 

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, 
which burn 
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; 
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it is 
yet, 

And from thy touch like fire doth leap. 

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet — 
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget ! 

A breathless awe, like the swift change 
Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers. 

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange. 

Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. 

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven 
By the enchantment of thy strain. 

And on my shoulders wings are woven, 
To follow its sublime career. 

Beyond the mighty moons that wane 

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, 
Till the world's shadowy walls are past and dis 
appear. 

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers, 

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings ; 
The blood and life within those snovvy fingers 

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. 
My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — 

The blood is listening in my frame. 
And thronging shadows, fast and thick. 

Fall on my overflowing eyes ; 
My heart is quivering like a flame ; 
468 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



221 



As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, 


While around the lash'd Ocean, 


I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. 


Like mountains in motion. 




Is withdrawn and uplifted, 


I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, 


Sunk, shatter'd and shifted, 


Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song 


To and fro. 


Flows on, and fills all things with melody. — 




Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, 


IV. 


On which, hke one in trance upborne. 


In the court of the fortress, 


Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, 


Beside the pale portress, 


Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. 


Like a blood-hound well beaten. 


Now 'tis the breath of summer night, 


The bridegroom stands, eaten 


Which, when the starry waters sleep. 


By shame ; 


Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, 




Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. 


On the topmost watch-turret, 




As a death-boding spirit. 
Stands the gray tyrant father. 


■ 




To his voice the mad weather 


THE FUGITIVES. 


Seems tame ; 


I. 


And with curses as wild 


The waters are flashing, 


As ere clung to child. 


The white hail is dashing, 


He devotes to the blast 


The lightnings are glancing, 


The best, loveliest, and last 


The hoar-spray is dancing — 


Of his name ! 


Away! 






The whirlwind is rolling, 




The thunder is tolling. 


A LAMENT.. _- 


The forest is swinging. 


( Swifter far than summer's flight, 


The minster-bells ringing — 


Come away I 




Swifter far than youth's delight. 

Swifter far than happy night, . 


The Earth is like Ocean, 




Art thou come and gone : 


Wreck-strewn and in motion : 




As the earth when leaves are dead, 


Bird, beast, man and worm 




As the night when sleep is sped. 


Have crept out of the storm — 




As the heart when joy is fled, 


Come away ! 




I am left lone, alone. 


II. 




The swallow Summer comes again. 


" Our boat has one sail, 




The owlet Night resumes her reign. 


And the helmsman is pale ; — 




But the wild swan Youth is fain 


A bold pilot I trow, 




To fly with thee, false as thou. 


Who should follow us now," — 


\ My heart each day desires the morrow, 


Shouted He — 


1 Sleep itself is turn'd to sorrow, 




' Vainly would my winter borrow 


And she cried : " Ply the oar ! 


Sunny leaves from any bough. , 


Put off gaily from shore !" — 


i 


As she spoke, bolts of death 


Lilies for a bridal bed. 


Mix'd with hail speck'd their path 
O'er the sea. 


Roses for a matron's head, ' 
Violets for a maiden dead, | 




Pansies let my flowers be : 


And from isle, tower and rock, 


On the living grave I bear. 


The blue beacon cloud broke, 


Scatter them without a tear, 


And though dumb in the blast. 


' Let no friend, however dear, ^ 


The red cannon flash'd fast 


^ Waste one hope, one fear, for me. i 


JTrnm t.hfi left. 


HI. 

« And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? 


THE PINE FOREST OP THE CASCINE, 


And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 




And drive we not free 


NEAR PISA. 


O'er the terrible sea, 


Dearest, best and brightest, 


land thou?" 


Come away. 




To the woods and to the fields ! 


One boat-cloak did cover 


Dearer than this fairest day. 


The loved and the lover — 


Which like thee to those in sorrow. 


Their blood beats one measure 


Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 


They murmur proud pleasure 


To the rough year just awake 


Soft and low ;— 




In its cradle in the brake. 



469 



222 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The eldest of the hours of spring, 
Into the winter wandering, 
Looks upon the leafless wood ; 
And the banks all bare and rude 
Found it seems this halcyon morn, 
In February's bosom born, 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
Kiss'd the cold forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea. 
And bade the frozen streams be free ; 
And waked to music all the fountains. 
And breathed upon the rigid mountains. 
And made the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake! arise! and come away! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all the roof of leaves ; 
Where the Pine its garland weaves. 
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun, 
Round stones that never kiss the sun ; 
To the sand-hills of the sea. 
Where the earliest violets be. 

Now the last day of many days, 
All beautiful and bright as thou, 
The loveliest and the last, is dead. 
Rise Memory, and write its praise. 
And do thy wonted work, and trace 
The epitaph of glory fled : 
For the Earth hath changed its face, 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 



We wander'd to the Pine Forest 
That skirts the Ocean's foam. 

The lightest wind was in its nest, 
The tempest in its home. 

The whispering waves were half asleep. 
The clouds were gone to play. 

And on the woods, and on the deep. 
The smile of Heaven lay. 

It seem'd as if the day were one 

Sent from beyond the skies. 
Which shed to earth above the sun 

A light of Paradise. 

We paused amid the Pines that stood 

The giants of the waste. 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude. 

With stems like serpents interlaced. 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 
By such a chain was bound, 

That even the busy woodpecker 
Made stiller by her sound 

The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drew, 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that roimd us grew. 



It seem'd that from the remotest seat 
Of the white mountain's waste, 

To the bright flower beneath our feet, 
A magic circle traced ; — 

A spirit interfused around, 

A thinking silent life, 
.To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal Nature's strife. — 

For still it seem'd the centre of 

The magic circle there. 
Was one whose being fill'd with love 

The breathless atmosphere. 

Were not the crocuses that grew 

Under that ilex-tree, 
As beautiful in scent and hue 

As ever fed the bee ? 

We stood beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough. 
And each seem'd like a sky 

Gulf 'd in a world below ; — 

A purple firmament of light, 
Which in the dark earth lay, 

More boundless than the depth of night. 
And clearer than the day — 

In which the massy forests grew, 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any waving there. 

Like one beloved, the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament, 

With that clear truth express'd. 



There lay far glades and neighboring lawn, 
And, through the dark-green crowd. 

The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
Under a speckled cloud. 

Sweet views, which in our world above 

Can never well be seen. 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green. 

And all was interfused beneath 

Within an Elysium air. 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A silence sleeping there. 

Until a wandering wind crept by, 

Like an imwelcome thought, 
Which from my mind's too faithful eye 

Blots thy bright image out. 

For thou art good and dear and kind. 

The forest ever green. 
But less of peace in S— — 's mind. 

Than calm in waters seen. 



I 



Fehrmry 2, 1822. 



470 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



223 



TO NIGHT. 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wo vest dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear,— 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was g 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, 
No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 



The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut 
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, 

like mountain over mountain huddled — but 
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd. 

And over it a space of watery blue, 

Which the keen evening-star is shining through. 



EVENING. 

PONTE A MARE, PISA. 

The sun is set '_ the swallows are asleep ; 

The bats are flitting fast in the gray air ; 
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep, 

And evening's breath, wandering here and there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream, 
Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream. , 

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night. 
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; 

The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ; 
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze 

The dust and straws are driven up and down, 

And whirl'd about the pavement of the town. 

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, 

Immovably unquiet, and for ever 
It trembles, but it never fades away ; 

Go to the [ ] 

You, being changed, will find it then as now. 



ARETHUSA. 



Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains,-— 

From cloud and from crag, 

With many a jag, 
Shepherding her bright fountains, 

She leapt down the rocks. 

With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams; — 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams : 

And gliding and springing. 

She went, ever singing. 
In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The Earth seem'd to love her, 

And Heaven smiled above her. 
As she linger'd towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold. 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook ; 

And open'd a chasm 

In the rocks ; — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It conceal'd behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below : 

The beard and the hair 

Of the river God were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep. 

As he follow'd the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide me. 
For he grasps me now by the hair!" 

The loud Ocean heard. 

To its blue depth stirr'd, 
And divided at her prayer ; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended. 

Her billows unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream : 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main, 
Alpheus rush'd behind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin, 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 
471 



224 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 

Sit on their pearled thrones, 
Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods, 

Over heaps of unvalued stones : 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a net-work of color'd light; 
And under the caves. 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night : — 
Outspeeding the shark, 
And the sword-fish dark, 

Under the ocean foam, 

And up through the rifts 
Of the mountain clifts. 

They pass'd'to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale A'here the morning 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted. 
They ply their ^vatery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From theij cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noonti<?e they flow 

Through the woods below, 
And the meadovis of Asphodel; 

And at nigiit they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky 
When they love but live no more. 
Pisa, 1820. 



THE QUESTION. 

I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way, 
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, 

And gentle odors led my steps astray, 

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 

But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 

Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears. 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-color'd May, 

And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day ; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine. 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 

And flowers azure, black and streak'd vdth gold. 

Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 



And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with ' 
white, 

And starry river buds among the sedge, 
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 

Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 

I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come. 

That I might there present it ! — Oh ! to whom ? 



LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? 
To thy chamber window, sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odors fail 
Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must on thine, 
Beloved as thou art ! 

lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast. 
Oh ! press it close to thine again. 
Where it will break at last. 



STANZAS 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright, 

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple moon's transparent light 

Around its unexpanded buds ; 

Like many a voice of one delight. 

The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods. 
The city's voice itself is soft, Uke SoIitude*a. 

I see the deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 

I see the waves upon the shore. 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : 
472 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



225 



I sit upon the sands alone, 

The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its mea"sured motion, 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found. 
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure : 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must bear. 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold. 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old. 

Insults with this untimely moan ; - 
They might lament — for I am one 

Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set. 
Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. 

December, 1818. 



AUTUMN ! 



The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing. 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dpng, 

And the year 
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, 
Is lying. 

Come, months, come away. 

From November to May, 

In your saddest array ; 

Follow the bier 

Of the dead cold year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling 

For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each 
gone 
To his dwelling ; 
Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray. 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 
And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
3K 



HYMN OF APOLLO. 

The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, 
Curtain'd with star-inwoven tapestries. 

From the broad moonlight of the sky, 

Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, — 

Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, 

Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. 

Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, 
I walk over the mountains and the waves, 

Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam ; 

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire ; the caves 

Are fiU'd with my bright presence, and the air 

Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare. 

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill 
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day ; 

All men who do or even imagine ill 
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray 

Good minds and open actions take new might. 

Until diminish'd by the reign of night. 

I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flow-ers. 
With their ethereal colors ; the Moon's globe 

And the pure stars in their eternal bowers 
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe ; 

Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine 

Are portions of one power, which is mine. 

I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, 
Then with unwilling steps I wander down 

Into the clouds of the Atlantic even ; 

For grief that I depart they weep and frows : 

What look is more delightful than the smile 

With which I soothe them from the western isle ? 

I am the eye with which the Universe 
Beholds itself and knows itself divine ; 

All harmony of instrument or verse. 
All prophecy, all medicine are mine. 

All light of art or nature ; — to my song 

Victory and praise in their own right belong. 



HYMN OF PAN. 

From the forests and highlands 

We come, we come ; 
From the river-girt islands. 

Where loud waves are dumb 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 
The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 

The bees on the bells of thyme. 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicale above in the lime. 
And the lizards below in the grass, 
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus* was. 
Listening to my sweet pipings. 

Liquid Peneus was flowing, 

And all dark Tempe lay 

In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
The light of the dying day, 



* This and the former poem were written at the request 
of a friend, to be inserted in a drama on the subject of 
Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus for the 
prize in music. 

473 



226 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Speeded by my sweet pipings. 
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves. 
To the edge of the moist river-lawns, 
And the brink of the dewy caves, 
And all that did then attend and follow, 
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, 
With envy of my sweet pipings. 

I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 
And of Heaven — and the giant wars. 
And Love, and Death, and Birth, — 
And then I changed my pipings, — 
Singing how down the vale of Menalus 

I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed : 
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 

It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed ; 
All wept, as I think both ye now would. 
If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 



THE BOAT 

ON THE SERCHIO. 

Our boat is asleep in Serchio's stream. 
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, 
The helm sways idly, hither and thither; 
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, 
And the oars and the sails ; but 'tis sleeping fast, 
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. 

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, 

And the thin white moon lay withering there ; 

To tower, and cavern, and rift and tree, 

The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 

Day had kindled the dewy woods. 

And the rocks above and the stream below. 

And the vapors in their multitudes, 

And the Apennine shroud of summer snow, 

And clothed with light of aery gold 

The mists in their eastern caves uproU'd. 

Day had awaken'd all things that be, 
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, 
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe, 
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee : 
Fire-flies were quench'd on the dewy corn, 
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim. 
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim : 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn, 
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill : 
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, 
Night's dreams and terrors, every one. 
Fled from the brams which are their prey, 
From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 

All rose to do the task He set to each, 
Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ; 
The milUon rose to learn, and one to teach 
What none yet ever knew or can be known ; 

And many rose 
Whose woe was such that fear became desire ; — 
Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; 



They from the throng of men had stepp'd aside. 
And made their home under the green hill side 
It was that hill, whose intervening brow 
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye. 
Which the circumfluous plain waving below. 
Like a wide lake of green fertility, 
With streams and fields and marshes bare, 
Divides from the far Apennines — 'which lie 
Islanded in the immeasurable air. 

What think you, as she lies in her green cove 
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? 
If morning dreams are true, why I should gue» 
That she was dreaming of our idleness. 
And of the miles of watery way 
We should have led her by this time of day ? " 



-" Never mind," said Lionel, 



" Give care to the winds, they can bear it well 

About yon poplar tops ; and see, 

The white clouds are driving merrily. 

And the stars we miss this morn will light 

More willingly our return to-night. — 

List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair ; 

How it scatters Dominic's long black hair. 

Singing of us, and our lazy motions. 

If I can guess a boat's emotions. — " 

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, 
The living breath is fresh behind. 
As with d§ ,vs and sunrise fed. 
Comes the laughing morning wind ; — 
The sails are full, the boat makes head 
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce, 
Then flags with intermitting course, 
And hangs upon the wave, [ ] 

Which fervid from its mountain source 
Shallow, smooth and strong doth come, — 
Swift as fire, tempestuously 
It sweeps into the affrighted sea ; 
In morning's smile its eddies coil. 
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil. 
Torturing all its quiet light 
Into columns fierce and bright. 

The Serchio, twisting forth 
Between the marble barriers which it clove 
At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm 
The wave that died the death that lovers love, 
Living in what it sought ; as if this spasm 
Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, 
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm 
Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, 
Down one clear path of eflfluence crystalline 
Sends its clear waves, that they may fling 
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine. 
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild 
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir. 
It rushes to the Ocean. 
July, 1821. 



THE ZUCCA.* 
I. 

Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring. 
And infant Winter laugh'd upon the land 



Pumpkin. 



474 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



227 



All cloudlessly and cold ; — when I, desiring 
More in this world than any understand, 

Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring, 
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand 

Of my poor heart, and o'er the grass and flowers 

Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours. 

W- 
Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep 

The instability of all but weeping ; 
And on the earth luU'd in her winter sleep 

I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping. 
Too happy Earth ! over thy face shall creep 

The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping 
From unremeraber'd dreams, shalt [ ] see 

No death divide thy immortality ! 

III. 
I loved — O no, I mean not one of ye. 

Or any earthly one, though ye are dear 
As human heart to human heart may be ; — 

I loved, I know not what — ^but this low sphere, 
And all that it contains, contains not thee. 

Thou, whom seen nowhere, I feel everywhere, 
Dim object of my soul's idolatry. 

Veiled art thou like — 

IV. 

By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou 
flowest. 

Neither to be contain'd, delay'd, or hidden, 
Making divine the loftiest and the lowest. 

When for a moment thou art not forbidden 
To live within the life which thou bestowest ; 

And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden,. 
Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight. 
Blank as the sun after the birth of night. 

V. 

In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common, 
In music, and the sweet unconscious tone 

Of animals, and voices which are human. 
Meant to express some feelings of their own ; 

In the soft motions and rare smile of woman, 

In flowers and leaves, and in the fresh grass shown. 

Or dying in the autunm, I the most 

Adore thee present or lament thee lost. 

VI. 

And thus I went lamenting, when I saw 

A plant upon the river's margin lie, 
Like one who loved beyond his Nature's law, 

And in despair had cast him dovm to die ; 
Its leaves which had outlived the frost, the thaw 

Had blighted as a heart which hatred's eye 
Can blast not, but which pity kills ; the dew 
Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too true. 

VII. 

The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth 
Had crush'd it on her unmaternal breast. 



VIII. 
I bore it to my chamber, and I planted 

It in a vase full of the lightest mould ; 
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted 

Fell through the window panes disrobed of cold, 



Upon its leaves and flowers ; the star which panted 

In evening for the Day, whose car has roU'd 
Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light 
Smiled on it from the threshold of the night. 

IX. 

The mitigated influences of air 

And light revived the plant, and from it grew 
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair, 

Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, 
O'erflowed with golden colors ; an atmosphere 

Of vital warmth infolded it anew, 
And every impulse sent to every part 
The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. 

X. 

Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong, 
Even if the sun and air smiled not on it ; 

For one wept o'er it all the winter long 

Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it 

Hour after hour ; for sounds of softest song, 
Mix'd with the stringed melodies that won it 

To leave the gentle lips on which it slept. 

Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept. 

XL 

Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers 
On which he wept, the while the savage storm. 

Waked by the darkest of December's hours, 

Was raving round the chamber hush'd and warm; 

The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers. 
The fish were frozen in the pools, the form 

Of every summer plant was dead [ ] 

Whilst this * * * 

January, 1822. 



THE TWO SPIRITS. 

AN ALLEGORY. 
FIRST SPIRIT. 

Oh thou, who plumed with strong desire 
Would float above the earth, beware ! 
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire — 

Night is coming ! 
Bright are the regions of the air. 

And among the winds and beams 
It were delight to wander there — 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

The deathless stars are bright above ; 

If I would cross the shade of night. 
Within my heart the lamp of love, 

And that is day ! 
And the moon will smile with gentle light 

On my golden plumes where'er they move : 
The meteors will linger round my flight. 
And make night day. 

FIRST SPIRIT. 

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken 

Hail and lightning and stormy rain ? 
See, the bounds of the air are shaken—- 
Night is coming .' 

475 



228 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The red swift clouds of the hurricane 
Yon decHning sun have overtaken, 
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain- 
Night is coming ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

I see the light, I hear the sound ; 

I '11 sail on the flood of the tempest dark 
With the calm within and the light around 

Which makes night day : 
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark, 

Look from the dull earth, slumber-bound. 
My moon-like flight then thou mayest mark 
On high, far away. 

Some say, there is a precipice 

Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin 
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice 

'Mid Alpine mountains ; 
And that the languid storm, pursuing 

That winged shape, for ever flies 
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing 
Its aery fountains. 

Some say, when nights are dry and clear, 

And the death-dews sleep on the morass, 
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller 

Which makes night day : 
And a silver shape like his early love doth pi 

Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, 
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, 
He finds night day. 



A FRAGMENT. 

They were two cousins, almost like to twins, 

Except that from the catalogue of sins 

Nature had razed their love — which could not be 

But by dissevering their nativity. 

And so they grew together, like two flowers 

Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers 

Lull or awaken in their purple prime. 

Which the same hand will gather — the same clime 

Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see 

All those who love, — and who e'er loved like thee, 

Fiordispina ? Scarcely Cosimo, 

Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow 

The ardors of a vision which obscure 

The very idol of its portraiture ; 

He faints, dissolved into a sense of love ; 

But thou art as a planet sphered above. 

But thou art Love itself — ruhng the motion 

Of his subjected spirit. — Such emotion 

Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May 

Had not brought forth this morn — ^your wedding-day. 



A BRIDAL SONG. 

The golden gates of sleep unbar 

Where strength and beauty met together, 

Kindle their image like a star 
In a sea of glassy weather. 

Night, with all thy stars look down, — 
Darkness, weep thy holiest dew, — 

Never smiled the inconstant moon 



On a pair so true. 
Let eyes not see their own delight ; — 
Haste, swift Hour, and thy flight 

Oft renew. 



Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her! 

Holy stars, permit no wrong ! 
And return to wake the sleeper, 

Dawn, — ere it be long. 
Oh joy ! oh fear ! what will be done 

In the absence of the sun ! 
Come along! 



THE SUNSET. 

There late was One within whose subtle being. 
As light and wind within some delicate cloud 
That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky. 
Genius and youth contended. None may know 
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath 
Fail, like the trances of a summer air. 
When, with the Lady of his love, who then 
First knew the unreserve of mingled being. 
He walk'd along the pathway of the field 
Which to the east a hoar wood shadow'd o'er, 
But to the west was open to the sky. 
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold 
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points 
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers. 
And the old dandelion's hoary beard, 
And, mingled with the shades of twilight lay 
On the brown massy woods — and in the east 
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose 
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees. 
While the faint stars were gathering overhead. — • 
" Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth, 
" I never saw the sun ? We will walk here 
To-morrow ; thou shalt look on it with me '' 



That night the youth and lady mingled lay 

In love and sleep — but when the morning came. 

The lady found her lover dead and cold. 

Let none believe that God in mercy gave 

That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild. 

But year by year lived on — in truth I think 

Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles, 

And that she did not die, but lived to tend 

Her aged father, were a kind of madness, 

If madness 'tis to be unlike the world. 

For but to see her were to read the tale 

Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts 

Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief; — 

Her eye-lashes were worn away with tears, 

Her lips and cheeks were like things dead — so pale; 

Her hands were thin, and through their wandering 

veins 
And weak articulations might be seen 
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self 
Which one vex'd ghost inhabits, night and day. 
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee ! 

" Inheritor of more than earth can give. 
Passionless calm, and silence unreproved. 
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep ! but rest, 
476 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



229 



And are the uncomplaining things they seem, 
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love ; 
Oh that like thine, mine epitaph were- 
This was the only moan she ever made. 

1816. 



SONG. 

ON A FADED VIOLET. 

The odor from the flower is gone, 

Which like thy kisses breathed on me ; 

The color from the flower is flown, 
Which glow'd of thee, and only thee ! 

A shrivell'd, lifeless, vacant form, 
Tt lies on my abandon'd breast, 

And mocks the heart which yet is warm 
With cold and silent rest. 

I weep — my tears revive it not ! 

I sigh — it breathes no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 

Is such as mine should be. 



LINES TO A CRITIC. 

Honey from silk-worms who can gather. 
Or silk from the yellow bee ? 

The grass may grow in winter weather 
As soon as hate in me. 

Hate men who cant, and men who pray, 
And men who rail like thee : 

An equal passion to repay. 
They are not coy like me. 

Or seek some slave of power and gold, 
To be thy dear heart's mate; 

Thy love will move that bigot cold. 
Sooner than me thy hate. 

A passion like the one I prove 

Cannot divided be ; 
I hate thy want of truth and love — 
How should I then hate thee ? 
December, 1817. 



TO-MORROW. 

Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 

Whom young and old and strong and weak, 
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow. 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek : — 
In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 
We find the thing we fled— To-day. 



DEATH. 



They die — the dead return not — Misery 

Sits near an open grave and calls them over, 
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye — 

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover, 
Which he so feebly call'd — they all are gone ! 
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone. 
This most familiar scene, my pain — 
These tombs alone remain. 

Misery, my sweetest friend — oh I weep no more ! 

Thou wilt not be consoled — I wonder not ! 
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door 

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot 
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory. 
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary ; 
This most familiar scene, my pain — 
These tombs alone remain. 



GOOD NIGHT. 

Good night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite ; 

Let us remain together still, 
Then it will be good night. 

How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 

Be it not said, thought, understood. 
Then it will be good night. 

To hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good ; because, my love, 
They riever say good night. 



A LAMENT. 



Oh; world ! oh, life ! oh, time ! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No more — O, never more ! 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, 
Move my faint heart wdth grief, but with delight 
No more — O, never more ! 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

The fountains mingle with the river. 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdain'd its brother : 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea. 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 
January, 1820. 

477 



230 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



TO E*** V***. 

Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me 

Sweet basil and mignionette ? 
Embleming love and health, which never yet 
In the same wreath might be. 
Alas, and they are wet ! 
Is it with thy kisses or thy tears ? 
For never rain or dew 
Such fragrance drew 
From plant or flower — the very doubt endears 

My sadness ever new, 
The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee. 
March, 1821. 



TO 



I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 



LINES. 



When the lamp is shatter'd, 
The light in the dust lies dead — 

When the cloud is scatter'd. 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remember'd not ; 

When the lips have spoken. 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendor 
Survive not the lamp and the lute. 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute : — 

No song but sad dirges. 
Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, 

Or the mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled. 
Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possest. 

O, Love ! who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 

Its passions will rock thee, 
As the storms rock the ravens on high : 

Bright reason will mock thee. 
Like the sun from a wintry sky 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave the naked to laughter, 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 



TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. 



(With what truth I may say- 
Roma 1 Roma! Roma! 
Non e piu come era prima !) 



My lost William, thou in whom 

Some bright spirit lived, and did 
That decaying robe consume 

Which its lustre faintly hid, 
Here its ashes find a tomb ; 
But beneath this pyramid 
Thou art not — if a thing divine 
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine 
Is thy mother's grief and mine. 

Where art thou, my gentle child ? 

Let me think thy spirit feeds. 
Within its life intense and mild, 

The love of living leaves and weeds, 
Among these tombs and ruins wild; — 

Let me think that through low seeds 
Of the sweet flowers and sunny 
Into their hues and scents may p; 
A portio n 
June, 1819. 



AN ALLEGORY. 

A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant 

Stands yawning on the highway of the life 
Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt ; 

Around it rages an unceasing strife 
Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt 
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high 
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky. 

And many pass'd it by with careless tread. 
Not knowing that a shadowy [ ] 

Tracks every traveller even to where the dead 
Wait peacefully for their companion new ; 

But others, by more curious humor led, 
Pause to examine, — these are very few. 

And they learn little there, except to know 

That shadows follow them where'er they go. 



MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to^ay 

To-morrow dies ; 
All that we wish to stay, 

Tempts and then flies : 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as bright. 

Virtue, how frail it is ! 

Friendship too rare ! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
Survive their joy and all 
Which ours we call. 

478 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



231 



Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day ; 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou — and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep. 



FROM THE ARABIC. 

AN IMITATION. 

My faint spirit was sitting in the light 

Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 

For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, 

Bore thee far from me : 
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, 

Did companion thee. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 

Or the death they bear. 
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove 

With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 

Shall mine cling to thee. 
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love. 

It may bring to thee. 



TO 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And Pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above. 

And the Heavens reject not — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



MUSIC. 

I PANT for the music which is divine. 
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower ; 

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine, 
Loosen the notes in a silver shower ; 

Like an herbless plain, for the gentle rain, 

I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. 

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound. 
More, O more, — I am thirsting yet ; 

It loosens the serpent which care has bound 
Upon my heart to stifle it ; 

The dissolving strain, through every vein, 

Passes into my heart and brain. 



As the scent of a violet wither'd up. 

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake ; 

When the hot noon has drain'd its dewy cup. 
And mist there was none its thirst to slake — 

And the violet lay dead while the odor flew 

On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue — 

As one who drinks from a charmed cup 

Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine. 

Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, 
Invites to love with her kiss divine. 



NOVEMBER, 1815. 

The cold earth slept below. 
Above the cold sky shone; 
And all around, 
With a chilling sound. 
From caves of ice and fields of snow, 
The breath of night like death did flow 
Beneath the sinking moon. 

The wintry hedge was black, 
The green grass was not seen, 
The birds did rest 
On the bare thorn's breast, 
Whose roots, beside the pathway track. 
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack 
Which the frost had made between. 

Thine eyes glow'd in the glare 
Of the moon's dying light ; 
As a fen-fire's beam. 
On a sluggish stream. 
Gleams dimly — so the moon shone there. 
And it yellow'd the strings of thy tangled hair 
That shook in the wind of night 

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ; 
The wind made thy bosom chill ; 
The night did shed 
On thy dear head 
Its frozen dew, and thou didst he 
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 
Might visit thee at will. 



DEATH. 



Death is here, and death is there. 
Death is busy everywhere, 
All around, within, beneath, 
Above is death — and we are death. 

Death has set his mark and seal 
On all we are and all we feel. 
On all we know and all we fear. 



/ First our pleasures die — and then 

I Our hopes, and then our fears — and when 

. These are dead, the debt is due, 

\ Dust claims dust — ^and we die too. 

\ 



479 



232 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All things that we love and cherish, 
Like ourselves, must fade and perish : 
Such is our rude mortal lot — 
Love itself would, did they not 



TO 



When passion's trance is overpast, 
If tenderness and truth could last 
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep 
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, 
I should not weep, I should not weep ! 

It were enough to feel, to see 

Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly. 

And dream the rest — and burn, and be 

The secret food of fires unseen, 

Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 

After the slumber of the year 
The woodland violets reappear ; 
All things revive in field or grove. 
And sky and sea, but two, which move, 
And for all others, life and love. 



PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES. 

Listen, listen, Mary mine. 
To the whisper of the Apennine. 
It bursts on the roof like the thunder's roar, 
Or like the sea on a northern shore. 
Heard in its raging ebb and flow 
By the captives pent in the cave below. 
The Apennine in the light of day 
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray. 
Which between the earth and sky doth lay ; 
But when night comes, a chaos dread 
On the dim star-light then is spread. 
And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm. 
May Ath, 1818. 



TO MARY 



^ 



Oh ! Mary dear, that you were here 

With your brown eyes bright and clear. 

And your sweet voice, like a bird 

Singing love to its lone mate 

In the ivy bower disconsolate ; 

Voice the sweetest ever heard ! 

And your brow more * * * 

Than the * * * sky 

Of this azure Italy. 

Mary dear, come to me soon, 

I am not well whilst thou art far ; — 

As sunset to the sphered moon. 

As twilight to the western star, 

Thou, beloved, art to me. 

Oh ! Mary dear, that you were here ; 
The Castle echo whispers " Here !" 
Este, September, 1818. 



THE PAST. 



Wilt thou forget the happy hours 
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers, 



Heaping over their corpses cold 
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould ? 
Blossoms which were the joys that fell, 
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain. 

Forget the dead, the past ? O yet 

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it 

Memories that make the heart a tomb. 

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom. 

And with ghastly whispers tell 

That joy, once lost, is pain. 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 

Within the silent centre of the earth 

My mansion is ; where I lived insphered 

From the beginning, and around my sleep 

Have woven all the wondrous imagery 

Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world ; 

Infinite depths of unknown elements 

Mass'd into one impenetrable mask ; 

Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins 

Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron. 

And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven 

I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and 

clouds. 
And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns 
In the dark space of interstellar air. 



LIBERTY. 



The fiery mountains answer each other ; 
Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone ; 
The tempestuous oceans awake one another. 
And the ice-rocks are shaken round winter's zone. 
When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown 

From a single cloud the lightning flashes, 
Whilst a thousand isles are illumined around ; 
Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes, 
A htmdred are shuddering and tottering ; the sound 
Is bellowing underground. 

But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare. 
And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp ; 
Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean ; thy stare 
Makes blind the volcanoes ; the sun's bright lamp 
To thine is a fen-fire damp. 

From billow and mountain and exhalation 
The sunhght is darted through vapor and blast ; 
From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation, 
From city to hamlet, thy dawning is cast, — 
And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night 
In the van of the morning light. 



TO 



Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed ; 

Yes, I was firm — thus did not thou ; — 
My baflfled looks did fear, yet dread. 

To meet thy looks — I could not know 
How anxiously they sought to shine 
With soothing pity upon mine. 
480 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



233 



To sit and curb the soul's mute rage 
Which preys upon itself alone ; 

To curse the life which is the cage 
Of fetter'd grief that dares not groan, 

Hiding from many a careless eye 

The scorned load of agony. 

Whilst thou alone, then not regarded, 
The [ ] thou alonp should be, 

To spend years thus, and be rewarded, 
As thou, sweet love, requited me 

When none were near — Oh ! I did wake 

From torture for that moment's sake. 

Upon my heart thy accents sweet 
Of peace and pity, fell like dew 

On flowers half dead ; — thy lips did meet 
Mine tremblingly ; thy dark eyes threw 

Thy soft persuasion on my brain. 

Charming away its dream of pain. 

We are not happy, sweet! our state 
Is strange and full of doubt and fear; 

More need of words that ills abate 5 — 
Reserve or censure come not near 

Our sacred friendship, lest there be 

No solace left for thou and me. 

Gentle and good and mild thou art, 
Nor I can live if thou appear 

Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart 
Away from me, or stoop to wear 

The mask of scorn, although it be 

To hide the love thou feel'st for me. 



THE ISLE. 



There was a little lawny islet 
By anemone and violet. 

Like mosaic, paven : 
And its roof was flowers and leaves 
Which the summer's breath inweaves, 
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze 
Pierce the pines and tallest trees. 

Each a gem engraven : 
Girt by many an azure wave 
With which the clouds and mountains ; 

A lake's blue chasm. 



TO 



Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live wuthin the sense they quicken. 

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



TIME. 



Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore, 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm. 

Who shall put forth on thee. 

Unfathomable Sea ? 



Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years. 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe 

Are brackish with the salt of human tears ! 

Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow 
3L 



LINES. 



That time is dead for ever, child, 
Drown'd, frozen, dead for ever! 

We look on the past, 

And stare aghast 
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast, 
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled 

To death on life's dark river. 

The stream we gazed on then, rolled by ; 
Its waves are unreturning ; 

But we yet stand 

In a lone land. 
Like tombs to mark the memory 
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee 
In the hght of hfe's dim morning. 
November bth, 1817. 



A SONG. 



A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love 

Upon a wintry bough ; 
The frozen wind kept on above. 

The freezing stream below. 

There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 
No flower upon the ground, 

And little motion in the air. 

Except the mill-wheel's sound. 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS. 

Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee in thy fiery flight, 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now ? 

Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 
Seekest thou repose now ? 

Weary wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest. 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow 1 



A DIRGE. 

Rough wind, that meanest loud 

Grief too sad for song ; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
Knells all the night long ; 
Sad storm, whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods, whose branches stain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, 

Wail, for the world's wrong! 
481 



234 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LINES. 

Far, far away, O ye 

Halcyons of memory, 
Seek some far calmer nest 
Than this abandon'd breast ; — 
No news of your false spring 
To my heart's winter bring, 
Once having gone, in vain 

Ye come again. 

Vultures, who build your bowers 
High in the Future's towers, 
Wither'd hopes on hopes are spread. 
Dying joys choked by the dead, 
Will serve your beaks for prey 
Many a day. 



SUPERSTITION. 

Thou taintest all thou look'st upon ! The stars, 
Which on thy cradle beam'd so brightly sweet. 
Were gods to the distemper'd playfulness 
Of thy untutor'd infancy ; the trees. 
The grass, the clouds, the mountains, and the sea. 
All living things that walk, swim, creep, or fly, 
Were gods : the sun had homage, and the moon 
Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, 
More daring in thy frenzies : every shape. 
Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild. 
Which, from sensation's relics, fancy culls ; 
The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost. 
The genii of the elements, the powers 
That give a shape to nature's varied works, 
Had life and place in the corrupt belief 
Of thy blind heart : yet still thy youthful hands 
Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave 
Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied brain ; 
Thine eager gaze scann'd the stupendous scene. 
Whose wonders mock'd the knowledge of thy pride 
Their everlasting and unchanging laws 
Reproach'd thine ignorance. Awhile thou stoodest 
Baffled and gloomy ; then thou didst sum up 
The elements of all that thou didst know ; 
The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign. 
The budding of the Heaven-breathing trees, 
The eternal orbs that beautify the night. 
The sunrise, and the setting of the moon. 
Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease. 
And all their causes, to an abstract point 
Converging, thou didst give it name, and form, 
Intelligence, and unity, and power. 



O! THERE ARE SPIRITS. 



AAKPYEI AlOISa HOTMON AHOTMON. 



O! THERE are spirits of the air. 

And genii of the evening breeze, 
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 
As star-beams among twilight trees : — 
Such lovely ministers to meet 
Oft hast thou turn'd from men thy lonely feet. 



With mountain winds, and babbling springs, 

And moonlight seas, that are the voice 
Of these inexplicable tilings. 

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice 
When they did answer thee ; but they 
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away. - 

And thou hast sought in starry eyes 

Beams that were never meant for thine. 
Another's wealth ; — tame sacrifice 
To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine ? 
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, 
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands ? 

Ah ! wherefore didst thou build thine hope 

On the false earth's inconstancy ? 
Did thine own mind afl^ord no scope 
Of love, or moving thoughts, to thee ? 
That natural scenes or human smiles 
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles. 

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted ; 
The glory of the moon is dead ; 

Night's ghost and dreams have now departed : 
Thine own soul still is true to thee. 
But changed to a foul fiend through misery. 

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs. 
Dream not to chase ; — the mad endeavor 
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate. 
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate. 



STANZAS.— APRIL, 1814. 

Away ! the moor is dark beneath the moon. 

Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even; 
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon. 
And profound est midnight shroud the serene lights 
of Heaven. 
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away ! 
Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's un- 
gentle mood : 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat 
thy stay : 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. 

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent home ; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth ; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come. 
And comphcate strange webs of melancholy mirth. 
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float 
around thine head ; 
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath 
thy feet : 
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that 
binds the dead. 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou 
and peace may meet. 

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own 
repose. 
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in 
the deep : 
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows: 
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its ap. 
pointed sleep. 

482 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



235 



Thou in the grave shall rest— yet till the phantoms 
flee 
Which that house and heath and garden made 
dear to thee erewhile, 
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings 
are not free 
From the music of two voices, and the light of one 
sweet smile. 



MUTABILITY. 

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; 

How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, 
Streaking the darkness radiantly ! — yet soon 

Night closes round, and they are lost for ever ; 

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings 
Give various response to each varying blast. 

To whose frail frame no second motion brings 
One mood or modulation like the last. 

We rest — A dream has power to poison sleep ; 

We rise — One wandering thought pollutes the day; 
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep ; 

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away: 

It is the same ! — For, be it joy or sorrow. 
The path of its departure still is free : 

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow ; 
Naught may endure but Mutability. 



ON DEATH. 



There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, 
in the grave, whither thou goest. —Ecclesiastes. 



The pale, the cold, and the moony smile 
Which the meteor beam of a starless night 

Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle. 

Ere the dawning of mom's undoubted light, 

Is the flame of life so fickle and wan 

That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. 

O man ! hold thee on in courage of soul 

Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way, 

And the billows of cloud that around thee roll 
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day. 

Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free 

To the universe of destiny. 

This world is the nurse of all we know. 
This world is the mother of all we feel. 

And the coming of death is a fearful blow 

To a brain unencompass'd with nerves of steel ; 

When all that we know, or feel, or see, 

Shall pass like an unreal mystery. 

The secret things of the grave are there, 
Where all but this frame must surely be. 

Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear 
No longer will live, to hear or to see 

All that is great and all that is strange 

In the boundless realm of unending change. 



Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? 

Who lifteth the veil of what is to come ? 
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath 

The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb ? 
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be 
With the fears and the love for that which we see ? 



A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCH- YARD, LECHDALE, 
GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

The wind has swept fit)m the wide atmosphere 
Each vapor that obscured the sunset's ray, 

And pallid evening twines its beamy hair 

In duskier braids around the languid eyes of day : 

Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men, 

Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen. 

They breathe their spells towards the departing day. 
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea ; 

Light, sound, and motion, own the potent sway. 
Responding to the charm with its own mystery. 

The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass 

Knows not their gentle motions as .they pass. 

Thou too, aerial pile ! whose pinnacles 

Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire, 

Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells. 

Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant 
spire. 

Around whose lessening and invisible height 

Gather among the stars the clouds of night. 

The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres : 

And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilUng sound. 

Half sense, half thought, among the darkness stirs. 
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things 
around. 

And, minghng with the still night and mute sky. 

Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. 

Thus solemnized and soften'd, death is mild 

And terrorless as this serenest night : 
Here could I hope, like some inquiring child 

Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human 
sight 
Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep 
That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep. 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF 
NAPOLEON. 

What ! alive and so bold, O earth ? 

Art thou not over-bold ? 

What ! leapest thou forth as of old 

In the light of thy morning mirth. 

The last of the flock of the starry fold ? 

Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ? 

Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled. 

And canst thou move. Napoleon being dead ? 

How ! is not thy quick heart cold ? 
What spark is alive on thy hearth ? 
How ! is not his death-knell knoU'd ? 
And livest thou still, mother Earth ? 
483 



238 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou wert warming thy fingers old 

O'er the embers cover'd and cold 

Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled — 

What, mother, do you laugh now he is dead ? 

" Who has known me of old," replied Earth, 

" Or who has my story told ? 

It is thou who art over-bold." 

And the lightning of scorn laugh'd forth 

As she sung, " To my bosom I fold 

All my sons when their knell is knoU'd, 

And so with living motion all are fed, 

And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead." 

" Still alive, and still bold," shouted Earth, 

" I grow bolder, and still more bold. 

The dead fill me ten thousand fold 

Fuller of speed, and splendor, and mirth ; 

I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, 

Like a frozen chaos uproll'd. 

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead 

My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed." 

" Ay, alive and bold," mutter'd Earth, 

" Napoleon's fierce spirit roll'd. 

In terror, and blood, and gold, 

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. 

Leave the millions who follow to mould 

The metal before it be cold ; 

And weave into his shame, which like the dead 

Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled." 



SUMMER AND WINTER. 

It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, 

Towards the end of the sunny month of June, 

When the north wind congregates in crowds 

The floating mountains of the silver clouds 

From the horizon — and the stainless sky 

Opens beyond them like eternity. 

All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds. 

The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds; 

The willow leaves that glanced in the hght breeze. 

And the firm foliage of the larger trees. 

It was a winter, such as when birds do die 
In the deep forests ; and the fishes lie 
Stiflfen'd in the translucent ice, which makes 
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes 
A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick ; and when, 
Among their children, comfortable men 
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold : 
Alas ! then for the homeless beggar old ! 



THE TOWER OF FAMINE.* 

Amid the desolation of a city, 
Which was the cradle, and is now the grave 
Of an extinguish'd people ; so that pity 
WeejK o'er the shipwrecks of oblivion's wave. 



* At Pisa there still exists the prison of Ugolino, which 
goes by the name of " La Torre della Fame :" in the ad- 
joining building the galley-slaves are confined. It is situ- 
ated near the Ponte al Mare on the Arno. 



There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built 

Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave 

For bread, and gold, and blood : pain, link'd to guilt 

Agitates the light flame of iheir hours, 

Until its vital oil is spent or spilt : 

There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers 

And sacred domes ; each marble-ribbed roof, 

The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers 

Of solitary wealth ! The tempest-proof 

Pavilions of the dark Italian air. 

Are by its presence dimm'd — they stand aloof, 

And are withdrawn — so that the world is bare. 

As if a spectre, wrapt in shapeless terror. 

Amid a company of ladies fair 

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror 

Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue. 

The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error. 

Should be absorb'd till they to marble grew. 



THE AZIOLA. 

" Do you not hear the Aziola cry ? 

Methinks she must be nigh," 

Said Mary, as we sate 

In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought ; 

And I, who thought 

This Aziola was some tedious woman, 

Ask'd, " Who is Aziola ? " how elate 

I felt to know that it was nothing human. 

No mockery of myself to fear or hate I 

And Mary saw my soul. 

And laugh'd and said, " Disquiet yourself not, 

'Tis nothing but a little downy owl." 

Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 

Thy music I had heard 

By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side 

And fields and marshes wide, — 

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, 

The soul ever stirr'd ; 

Unlike, and far sweeter than them all : 

Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 

Loved thee and thy sad cry. 



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR 

Orphan hours, the year is dead. 
Come and sigh, come and weep ! 

Merry hours, smile instead. 
For the year is but asleep. 

See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 

Mocking your untimely weeping. 

As an earthquake rocks a corse 

In its coflin in the clay, 
So white Winter, that rough nurse. 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day ; 
Solemn hours ! wait aloud 
For your mother in her shroud. 

As the wild air stirs and sways 
The tree-swung cradle of a child. 

So the breath of these rude days 
Rocks the year: — be calm and mild, 

Trembling hours, she will arise 

With new love within her eyes. 
484 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



237 



January gray is here, 

Like a sexton by her grave ; 

February bears the bier, 

March with grief doth howl and rave, 

And April weeps — but, O ye hours, 

Follow with May's fairest flowers ! 

Janvary ls<, 1821. 



SONNETS. 



OZYMANDIAS. 

I MET a traveller from an antique land, 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand. 
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown, 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mock'd tliem and the heart that fed ; 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
" My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



Ye hasten to the dead ! What seek ye there, 

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear ? 

O thou quick Heart, which pantest to possess 

All that anticipation feigneth fair ! 

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess 

Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go. 

And that which never yet was known would know — 

Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, 

Seeking alike from happiness and woe 

A refuge in the cavern of gray death ? 

O heart, and mind, and thoughts ! What thing do ye 

Hope to inherit in the grave below ? 



POLITICAL GREATNESS. 

Nor. happiness, nor majesty, nor fame. 
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts. 
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame ; 
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts, 
History is but the shadow of their shame, 
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts, 
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet. 
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery 
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit 
By force or custom ? Man who man would be, 
Must rule the empire of himself; in it 
Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
On vanquish'd will, quelling the anarchy 
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone. 



Alas ! good friend, what profit can you see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
There is no sport in hate where all the rage 
Is on one side. In vain would you assuage 
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile, 
In which not even contempt lurks, to beguile 



Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate. 
O conquer what you cannot satiate ! 
For to your passion I am far more coy 
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy 
In winter noon. Of your antipathy 
If I am the Narcissus, you are free 
To pine into a sound with hating me. 



Lift not the painted veil which those who live 
Call Life : though unreal shapes be painted there, 
And it but mimic all we would believe 
With colors idly spread : — behind, lurk Fear 
And Hope, twin destinies ; who ever weave 
The shadows, which the world calls substance, there. 

I knew one who lifted it — he sought. 
For his lost heart was tender, things to love. 
But found them not, alas ! nor was there aught 
The world contains, the which he could approve. 
Through the unheeding many he did move, 
A splendor among shadows, a bright blot 
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove 
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not, 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know 
That things depart which never may return ! 
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow, 
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. 
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine 
Which thou too feel'st ; yet I alone deplore. 
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine 
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar : 
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood 
Above the blind and battling multitude. 
In honor'd poverty thy voice did weave 
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty, — 
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve. 
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be. 



FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF 
BONAPARTE. 

I HATED thee, fallen tyrant ! I did groan 

To think that a most ambitious slave, 

Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave 

Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne 

Where it had stood even now : thou didst prefer 

A frail and bloody pomp, which time has swept 

In fragments towards oblivion. Massacre, 

For this I pray'd, would on thy sleep have crept. 

Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust, 

And stifled thee, their minister. I know 

Too late, since thou and France are in the dust. 

That Virtue owns a more eternal foe 

Than force or fraud : old Custom, legal Crime, 

And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of time. 



DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 



From the Italian of Dante. 



GuiDO, I would that Lappo, thou, and I, 

Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend 

485 



238 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly, 
With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might wend, 
And that no change, nor any evil chance, 
Should mar our joyous voyage ; but it might be, 
That even satiety should still enhance 
Between our hearts their strict community, 
And that the bounteous vsdzard then would place 
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love, 
Companions of our wandering, and would grace 
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove, 
Our time, and each were as content and free 
As I believe that thou and I should be. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS. 



Tav dXa Tav yXavKav brav wvejiog aTpena^aWrj^ 

K. T. X. 

When winds that move not its calm surface sweep 
The azure sea, I love the land no more. 
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep 
Tempt my unquiet mind. — But when the roar 
Of ocean's gray abyss resounds, and foam 
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst, 
I turn from the drear aspect to the home 
Of earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed, 
When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody. 
Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea. 
Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot 
Has chosen. — But I my languid limbs will fling 
Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring 
Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it not. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



HYMN TO MERCURY. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER. 

Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, 

The Herald-child, king of Arcadia 

And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love 

Having been interwoven, modest May 

Bore Heaven's dread Supreme — an antique grove 

Shadow'd the cavern where the lovers lay 

In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, 

And white-arm'd Juno slumber'd sweetly then. 

n. 

Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, 
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, 
She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, 
A schemer subtle beyond all belief; 
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, 
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, 
Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve. 
And other glorious actions to achieve. 

ni. 

The babe was bom at the first peep of day ; 
He began playing on the lyre at noon, 
And the same evening did he steal away 
Apollo's herds ; — the fourth day of the moon 
On which him bore the venerable May, 
From her immortal limbs he leap'd full soon. 
Nor long could in th(g| sacred cradle keep, 
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep. 



IV. 

Out of the lofty cavern wandering 

He found a tortoise, and cried out — " A treasure!' 

(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing :) 

The beast before the portal at his leisure 

The flowery herbage was depasturing. 

Moving his feet in a deliberate measure 

Over the turf Jove's profitable son 

Eyeing him laugh'd, and laughing thus begun : — 



" A useful god-send are you to me now. 
King of the dance, companion of the feast. 
Lovely in all your nature .' Welcome, you 
Excellent plaything ! Where, sweet mountain beast 
Got you that speckled shell ? Thus much I know, 
You must come home with me and be my guest ; 
You will give joy to me, and I will do 
All that is in my power to honor you. 

VI. 

" Better to be at home than out of door ; — 

So come with me, and though it has been said 

That you alive defend from magic power, 

I know you will sing sweetly when you 're dead " 

Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore. 

Lifting it from the grass on which it fed, 

And grasping it in his delighted hold. 

His treasured prize into the cavern old. 

VII. 

Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel 
He bored the life and soul out of the beast — 
Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal 
Darts through the tumult of a human breast 
Which thronging cares annoy — not swifter wheel 
The flashes of its torture and unrest 
Out of the dizzy eyes — than Maia's son 
All that he did devise hath featly done. 

VIII. 

And through the tortoise's hard strong skin 
At proper distances small holes he made, 
And fasten'd the cut stems of reeds within. 
And with a piece of leather overlaid 
The open space, and fixed the cubits in, 
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretch'd o'er all 
Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical. 

IX. 

When he had wrought the lovely instrument, 
He tried the chords, and made division meet. 
Preluding with the plectrum ; and there weni 
Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet 
Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent 
A strain of unpremeditated wit. 
Joyous and wild and wanton — such you may 
Hear among revellers on a holiday. 

X. 

He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal 
Dallied in love not quite legitimate ; 
And his own birth, still scofling at the scandal. 
And naming his ovm name, did celebrate ; 
His mother's cave and servant-maids he plann'd all 
In plastic verse, her household stufiT and state, 
Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan — 
But singing he conceived another plan. 
486 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



239 



XL 
Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, 
He in his sacred crib deposited 
The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet 
Rush'd with great leaps up to the mountain's head, 
Revolving in his mind some subtle feat 
Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might 
Devise in the lone season of dun night. 

XII. 

Lo ! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has 
Driven steeds and chariot — the child meanwhile strode 
O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, 
Where the immortal oxen of the God 
Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows. 
And safely stall'd in a remote abode — 
The archer Argicide, elate and proud, 
Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. 

XIII. 
He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, 
I But, being ever mindful of his craft, 
, Backward and forward drove he them astray, 
So that the tracks which seem'd before, were aft : 
His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray. 
And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft 
Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, 
And bound them in a lump with withy twigs. 

XIV. 
And on his feet he tied these sandals light, 
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray 
His track ; and then, a self-sufficing wight, ■ 
Like a man hastening on some distant way, 

i' He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight ; 
But an old man perceived the infant pass 

|i Down green Onchestus, heap'd like beds with grass. 

XV. 
The old man stood dressing his sunny vine : 
" Halloo ! old fellow with the crooked shoulder ! 
You grub those stumps ? before they will bear wine 
' Methinks even you must grow a little older : 
Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, 
As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder — 
Seeing, see not — and hearing, hear not — and — 
If you have understanding — understand." 

XVI. 

I So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast ; 
O'er shadowy mountain and resounding dell, 
And flower-pa ven plains, great Hermes past ; 
Till the black night divine, which favoring fell 
Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast 
i Waken'd the world to work, and from her cell 
t Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime 
Into her watch-tower just began to climb. 

XVII. 
Now to Alpheus he had driven all 
The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun ; 
They came unwearied to the lofty stall. 
And to the water-troughs which ever run 

IThrough the fresh fields — and when with rush-grass 

tall, 
Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one 

; Had pastured been, the great God made them move 

, Towards the stall in a collected drove. 



xvni. 

A mighty pile of wood the God then heap'd. 
And having soon conceived the mystery 
Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stript 
The bark, and rubb'd them in his palms,— on high 
Suddenly forth the burning vapor leapt, 
And the divine child saw delightedly — 
Mercury first found out for human weal 
Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel. 

XIX. 
And fine dry logs and roots innumerous 
He gather'd in a delve upon the ground — 
And kindled them — and instantaneous 
The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around • 
And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus 
Wrapt the great pile with glare and roaring sound, 
Hermes dragg'd forth two heifers, lowing loud, 
Close to the fire — such might was in the God. 

XX. 

And on the earth upon their backs he threw 
The panting beasts, and roll'd them o'er and o'er, 
And bored their lives out. Without more ado 
He cut up fat and flesh, and down before 
The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, 
Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore 
Pursed in the bowels ; and while this was done. 
He stretch'd their hides over a craggy stone. 

XXI. 

We mortals let an ox grow old, and then 

Cut it up after long consideration, — 

But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen 

Drew the fat spoils to the more open station 

Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them ; and 

when 
He had by lot assign'd to each a ration 
Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware 
Of all the joys which in religion are. 

XXII. 

For the sweet savor of the roasted meat 
Tempted him, though immortal. Natheless, 
He check'd his haughty will and did not eat, 
Though what it cost him words can scarce express, 
And every wish to put such morsels sweet 
Down his most sacred throat, he did repress ; 
But soon within the lofty-portall'd stall 
He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all. 

XXIII. 
And every trace of the fresh butchery 
And cooking, the God soon made disappear. 
As if it all had vanish'd through the sky : 
He burn'd the hoofs and horns and head and hair. 
The insatiate fire devour'd them hungrily ; 
And when he saw that every thing was clear. 
He quench'd the coals and trampled the black dust 
And in the stream his bloody sandals toss'd. 

XXIV. 
All night he work'd in the serene moonshine — 
But when the light of day was spread abroad. 
He sought his natal mountain peaks divine. 
On his long wandering, neither man nor god 
Had met him, since he kill'd Apollo's kine, 
Nor house-dog had bark'd at him on his road ; 
Now he obliquely through the key-hole past, 
Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast. 
487 



240 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXV. 
Right through the temple of the spacious cave 
He went with soft light feet — as if his tread 
Fell not on earth ; no sound their falling gave ; 
Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread 
The swaddling-clothes about him ; and the knave 
Lay playing with the covering of the bed 
With his left hand about his knees — the right 
Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. 

XXVI. 

There he lay iimocent as a new-born child, 

As gossips say ; but though he was a god. 

The goddess, his fair mother, un beguiled. 

Knew all that he had done being abroad : 

" Whence come you, and from what adventure wild, 

You cunning rogue, and where have you abode 

All the long night, clothed in your impudence? 

What have you done since you departed hence ? 

XXVII. 
" Apollo soon will pass within this gate, 
And bind your tender body in a chain 
Inextricably tight, and fast as fate. 
Unless you can delude the God again, 
Even when within his arms — ah, runagate ! 
A pretty torment both of gods and men 
Your father made when he made you!" — ^"Dear 

mother," 
Replied sly Hermes, " Wherefore scold and bother ? 

XXVIII. 
" As if I were like other babes as old, 
And understood nothing of what is what ; 
And cared at all to hear my mother scold. 
I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, 
Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are 

roll'd 
Will profit you and me — nor shall our lot 
Be as you counsel, without gifts or food 
To spend our lives in this obscure abode. 

XXIX. 

" But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave 
And live among the Gods, and pass each day 
In high communion, sharing what they have 
Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey ; 
And from the portion which my father gave 
To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, 
Which if my father will not — natheless I, 
Who am the king of robbers, can but try. 

XXX. 
" And, if Latona's son should find me out, 

I '11 countermine him by a deeper plan ; 
I '11 pierce the Pythian temple- walls, though stout, 

And sack the fane of every thing I can — 
Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, 

Each golden cup and polish'd brazen pan, 
All the wrought tapestries and garments gay." — 
So they together talk'd ; — meanwhile the Day 

XXXI. 
Ethereal born arose out of the flood 

Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. 
Apollo past toward the sacred wood. 

Which from the inmost depths of its green glen 
Echoes the voice of Neptune, — and there stood 

On the same spot in green Onchestus then 
That same old animal, the vine-dresser, 
Who was employ 'd hedging his vineyard there. 



XXXII. 

Latona's glorious Son began : — " I pray 
Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, 

Whether a drove of kine has past this way, 

AM heifers with crooked horns ? for they have been 

Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, 

Where a black bull was fed apart, between 

Two woody mountains in a neighboring glen, 

And four fierce dogs watch'd there, unanimous as mea 

XXXIII. 

" And, what is strange, the author of this thefl 
Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, 

But the four dogs and the black bull are left : — 
Stolen they were last night at set of sun, 

Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft — 
Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, 

Have you seen any one pass with the cows ? " 

To whom the man of overhanging brows : 

XXXIV. 

" My friend, it would require no common skill 

Justly to speak of every thing I see : 
On various purposes of good or ill 

Many pass by my vineyard, — and to me 
'Tis difficult to know the invisible 

Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be : — 
Thus much alone I certainly can say, 
I till'd these vines till the decline of day. 

XXXV. 

" And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak 
With certainty of such a wondrous thing, 

A child, who could not have been born a week, 
Those fair-horn'd cattle closely following. 

And in his hand he held a polish'd stick ; 
And, as on purpose, he walk'd wavering 

From one side to the other of the road. 

And with his face opposed the steps he trod." 

xxxvi: 

Apollo hearing this, past quickly on — 

No winged omen could have shown more clear 

That the deceiver was his father's son, 
So the God w'raps a purple atmosphere 

Around his shoulders, and Uke fire is gone 
To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there, 

And found their track and his, yet hardly cold. 

And cried — " What wonder do mine eyes behold ! 

XXXVII. 
" Here are the footsteps of the horned herd 

Turn'd back towards their fields of asphodel ; — 
But these ! are not the tracks of beast or bird. 

Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell. 
Or maned Centaur — sand was never stirr'd ' 

By man or woman thus ! Inexplicable ! 
Who with unwearied feet could e'er impress 
The sand with such enormous vestiges ? 

XXXVIII. 

" That was most strange — but this is stranger still !" 
Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously 

Sought high Cyllene's forest-cinctured hill. 

And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie. 

And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will 
Bore the Saturnian's love-child. Mercury — 

And a dehghful odor from the dew 

Of the hill pastures, at his coming flew. 
488 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



241 



XXXIX. 

And Phoebus stoop'd under the craggy roof 
Arch'd over the dark cavern :— Maia's child 

Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, 

About the cows of which he had been beguiled, 

And over him the fine and fragrant woof 

Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled — 

As among fire-brands lies a burning spark, 

Cover'd beneath the ashes cold and dark. 

XL. 

There, like an infant who had suck'd his fill, 
And now was newly wash'd and put to bed, 

Awake, but courting sleep with weary will, 
And gather'd in a lump hands, feet, and head, 

He lay, and his beloved tortoise still 

He grasp'd and held under his shoulder-blade. 

Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew. 

Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who 

XLI. 

Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook 
Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo 

Look'd sharp ; and when he saw them not, he took 
The glittering key, and open'd three great hollow 

Recesses in the rock — where many a nook 

Was fiU'd with the sweet food immortals swallow, 

And mighty heaps of silver and of gold 

Were piled within — a wonder to behold ! 

XLII. 

And white and silver robes, all overwrought 
With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet — 

Except among the Gods, there can be naught 
In the wide world to be compared with it. 

Latona's offspring, after having sought 
His herds in every corner, thus did greet 

Great Hermes : — " Little cradled rogue, declare 

Of my illustrious heifers, where they are ! 



"Speak quickly! or 



XLUI. 

quarrel between us 



Must rise, and the event will be, that I 
Shall hawl you into dismal Tartarus, 

In fiery gloom to dwell eternally ; 
Nor shall your father nor your mother loose 

The bars of that black dungeon — utterly 
You shall be cast out from the light of day. 
To rule the ghosts of men, unblest as they." 

XLIV. 
To whom thus Hermes slyly answer'd : — " Son 

Of great Latona, what a speech is this ! 
Why come you here to ask me what is done 

With the wild oxen which it seems you miss ? 
I have not seen them, nor from any one 

Have heard a word of the whole business ; 
If you should promise an immense reward, 
I could not tell more than you now have heard. 

, XLV. 

"An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, 
I And I am but a little new-bom thing, 

Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong : — 
My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling 

The cradle-clothes about me all day long, — 
1 Or, half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, 
j And to be wash'd in water clean and warm. 

And hush'd and kiss'd and kept secure from harm. 
1 3M 



XLVI. 
" O, let not e'er this quarrel be averr'd ! 

The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e'er 
You should allege a story so absurd. 

As that a new-born infant forth could fare 
Out of his home after a savage herd. 

I was bom yesterday — my small feet are 
Too tender for the roads so hard and rough : 
And if you think that this is not enough, 

XLVII. 
" I swear a great oath, by my father's head. 

That I stole not your cows, and that I know 
Of no one else, who might, or could, or did. — 

Whatever things cows are, I do not know, 
For I have only heard the name." — This said, 

He wink'd as fast as could be, and his brow 
Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he. 
Like one who hears some strange absurdity. 

XLVIII. 

Apollo gently smiled, and said : — " Ay, ay, — 
You cunning little rascal, you will bore 

Many a rich man's house, and your array 

Of thieves will lay their siege before his door 

Silent as night, in night ; and many a day 

In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore 

That you or yours, having an appetite. 

Met with their cattle, comrade of the night ! 

XLIX. 
" And this among the Gods shall be your gift, 

To be consider'd as the lord of those 
Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;- 

But now if you would not your last sleep dose. 
Crawl out ! " — Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift 

The subtle infant in his swaddhng-clothes, 
And in his arms, according to his wont, 
A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont. 

L. 



And sneezed and shudder'd — Phoebus on the grass 
Him threw, and whilst all that he had design'd ' 

He did perform — eager although to pass, 
Apollo darted from his mighty mind 

Towards the subtle babe the following scoff: 

"Do not imagine this will get you off, 

LI. 

"You little swaddled child of Jove and May." 
And seized him : — " By this omen I shall trace 

My noble herds, and you shall lead the way." — 
Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place. 

Like one in earnest haste to get away. 

Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face 

Roused both his ears — up from his shoulders drew 

His swaddling-clothes, and — " What mean you to do 

LTI. 

" With me, you unkind God ?" said Mercury: 
" Is it about these cows you tease me so ? 

I wish the race of cows were perish'd ! — I 
Stole not your cows — I do not even know 

What things cows are. Alas ! I well may sigh, 
That since I came into this world of woe, 

I should have ever heard the name of one — 

But I appeal to the Satumian's throne." 
489 



242 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LIII. 

Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury 
Talk'd without coming to an explanation, 

With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he 
Sought not revenge, but only information, 

And Hermes tried with lies and roguery 
To cheat Apollo — But when no evasion 

Served — for the cunning one his match had found — 

He paced on first o'er the sandy ground. 

LIV. 

He of the Silver Bow, the child of Jove 
Follow'd behind, till to their heavenly Sire 

Came both his children — beautiful as Love, 
And from his equal balance did require 

A judgment in the cause wherein they strove. 

O'er odorous Olympus and its snows 

A mura^ing tumult as they came arose, — 

LV. 

And from the folded depths of the great Hill, 
While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood 

Before Jove's throne, the indestructible 
Immortals rush'd in mighty multitude ; 

And whilst their seats in order do they fill. 
The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood 

To Phoebus said: — "Whence drive you this sweet prey. 

The herald-baby born but yesterday ? — 

LVI. 

" A most important subject, trifler, this 

To lay before the Gods ! " — " Nay, father, nay, 

When you have understood the business, 
Say not that I alone am fond of prey. 

I found this little boy in a recess 

Under Cyllene's mountains far away — 

A manifest and most apparent thief, 

A scandal-monger beyond all belief. 

LVII. 
" I never saw his like either in heaven 

Or upon earth for knavery or craft : 
Out of the field my cattle yester-even. 

By the low shore on which the loud sea laugh'd. 
He right down to the river-ford had driven ; 

And mere astonishment would make you daft 
To see the double kind of footsteps strange 
He has impress'd wherever he did range. 

LVIII. 

" The cattle's track on the black dust full well 

Is evident, as if they went towards 
The place from which they came — that asphodel 

Meadow, in wliich I feed my many herds. — 
His steps were most incomprehensible — 

I know not how I can describe in words 
Those tracks — he could have gone along the sands 
Neither upon his feet nor on his hands ; — 

LIX. 

He must have had some other stranger mode 
Of moving on : those vestiges immense, 

Far as I traced them on the sandy road, 

Seem'd like the trail of oak-topplings : — but thence 

No mark or track denoting where they trod 

The hard ground gave : — but working at his fence, 

A mortal hedger saw him as he past 

To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. 



LX. 

" I found that in the dark he quietly 

Had sacrificed some cows, and before light 

Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly 

About the road — then, still as gloomy night, 

Had crept into his cradle, either eye 

Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. 

No eagle could have seen him as he lay 

Hid in his cavern from the peering day. 

LXI. 

" I tax'd him with the fact, when he averr'd 
Most solemnly that he did neither see 

Or even had in any manner heard 

Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be ; 

Nor could he tell, though ofFer'd a reward. 
Not even who could tell of them to me." 

So speaking, Phoebus sate ; and Hermes then 

Address'd the Supreme Lord of Gods and men : 

LXII. 

"Great Father, you know clearly beforehand, 
That all which I shall say to you is sooth ; 

I am a most veracious person, and 
Totally unacquainted with untruthl 

At sunrise, Phoebus came, but with no band 
Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath. 

To my abode, seeldng his heifers there. 

And saying that I must show him where they are, 

LXIII. 

"Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. 

I know, that every Apollonian limb 
Is clothed with speed and might and manliness. 

As a green bank with flowers — but unUke him 
I was bom yesterday, and you may guess 

He well knew this when he indulged the whim 
Of bullying a poor little new-born thing 
That slept, and never thought of cow-driving. 

LXIV. 
"Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine ? 

Believe me, dearest Father, such you are. 
This driving of the herds is none of mine ; 

Across my threshold did I wander ne'er. 
So may I thrive ! I reverence the divine 

Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care 
Even for this hard accuser — who must know 
I am as innocent as they or you. 

LXV. 

" I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals — 
(It is, you will allow, an oath of might) 

Through which the multitude of the Immortals ' 
Pass and repass for ever, day and night,. 

Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals — 
That I am guiltless ; and I will requite, 

Although mine enemy be great and strong. 

His cruel threat — do thou defend the young!" 

LXVL I 

So speaking, the Cyllenian Agriphont 

Wink'd, as if now his adversary was fitted : — 

And Jupiter, according to his wont, 

liaugh'd heartily to hear the subtle-witted 

Infant give such a plausible account. 
And every word a lie. But he remitted 

Judgment at present — and his exhortation 

Was, to compose the aiTair by arbitration. 
490 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



243 



LXVII. 

And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden 
To go forth with a single purpose both, 

Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden : 
And Mercury with innocence and truth 

To lead the way, and show where he had hidden 
The mighty heifers. — Hermes, nothing loth, 

Obey'd the ^gis-bearer's will — for he 

Is able to persuade all easily. 

LXVIII. 
These lovely children of Heaven's highest Lord 

Hasten'd to Pylos, and the pastures wide 
And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, 

Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied 
With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd 

Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied 
The hides of those the little babe had slain, 
Stretch'd on the precipice above the plain. 

LXIX. 

•* How was it possible," then Phoebus said, 
"That you, a little child, born yesterday, 

A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed, 
Could two prodigious heifers ever flay ? 

Even I myself may well hereafter dread 
Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, 

When you grow strong and tall." — He spoke, and bound 

Stiff withy bands the infant's wrists around. 

LXX. 

He might as well have bound the oxen wild ; 

The withy bands, though starkly interknit, 
Fell at the feet of the immortal child, 

Loosen'd by some device of his quick wit. 
Phcebus perceived himself again beguiled. 

And stared — while Hermes sought some hole or pit. 
Looking askance and winking fast as thought, 
Where he might hide himself and not be caught. 

LXXI. 

Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill 
Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might 

Of winning music, to his mightier will ; 

His left hand held the lyre, and in his right 

The plectrum struck the chords — unconquerable 
Up from beneath his hand in circling flight 

The gathering music rose — and sweet as Love 

The penetrating notes did live and move 

LXXII. 

Within the heart of great Apollo — he 

Listen'd with all his soul, and laugh'd for pleasure. 
Close to his side stood harping fearlessly 

The unabashed boy ; and to the measure 
Of the sweet lyre, there fbllow'd loud and free 

His joyous voice ; for he unlock'd the treasure 
Of his deep song, illustrating the birth 
Of the bright Gods and the dark desert Earth : 

'' Lxxni. 

And how to the Immortals every one 

A portion was assign'd of all that is 
But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son 

Clothe in the light of his loud melodies ; — 
And as each God was born or had begun. 

He in their order due and fit degrees 
Sung of his birth and being — and did move 
Apollo to unutterable love. 



LXXIV. 
These words were winged with his swift delight : 

" You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you 
Deserve that fifty oxen should requite 

Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. 
Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight. 

One of your secrets I would gladly know, 
Whether the glorious power you now show forth 
Was folded up within you at your birth, 

LXXV. 

" Or whether mortal taught or God inspired 

The power of unpremeditated song ? 
Many divinest sounds have I admired, 

The Olympian Gods and mortal men among ; 
But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, 

And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, 
Yet did I never hear except from thee, 
Ofl!spring of May, impostor Mercury ! J|||| 

LXXVI. 

" What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, 
What exercise of subtlest art, has given 

Thy songs such power? — for those who hear may choose 
From thee the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, 

Delight, and love, and sleep, — sweet sleep, whose dew3 
Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even: — 

And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo 

Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow : 

LXXVII. 

" And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise 

Of song and overflowing poesy ; 
And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice 

Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly ; 
But never did my inmost soul rejoice 

In this dear work of youthful revelry. 
As now I wonder at thee, son of Jove ; 
Thy harpings and thy songs are soft as love. 

Lxxvni. 

" Now since thou hast, although so very small, 
Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear. 

And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall. 
Witness between us what I promise here, — 

That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, 
Honor'd and mighty, with thy mother dear. 

And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee. 

And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee." 

LXXIX. 

To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech : — 
" Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill : 

I envy thee no thing I know to teach 

Even this day: — for both in word and will 

I would be gentle with thee ; thou canst reach 
All things in thy vdse spirit, and thy skill 

Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, 

Who loves thee in the fullness of his love. 

LXXX. 

" The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee 

Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude 
Of his profuse exhaustless treasury ; 

By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood 
Of his far voice ; by thee the mystery 

Of all oracular fates, — and the dread mood 
Of the diviner is breathed up, even I — 
A child — perceive thy might and majesty — 
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I 



LXXXI. 
" Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit 

Can find or teach ; — yet since thou wilt, come take 
The lyre — be mine the glory giving it — 

Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake 
Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit 

Of tranced sound — and with fleet fingers make 
Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee : 
It can talk measured music eloquently. 

LXXXII. 

' Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, 
Love- wakening dance, or feast of solenm state, 

A joy by night or day — for those endowed 
With art and wisdom, who interrogate, 

It teaches, babbling in delightful mood 

All things which make the spirit most elate, 

Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, 

Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. 

LXXXIII. 

" To those who are unskill'd in its sweet tongue, 
Though they should question most impetuously 

Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong — 
Some senseless and impertinent reply. 

But thou, who art as wise as thou art strong, 
Can compass all that thou desirest. I 

Present thee with this music-flowing shell, 

Knowing thou canst interrogate it well. 

LXXXIV. 

" And let us two henceforth together feed 

On this green mountain slope and pastoral plain, 

The herds in litigation — they will breed 
Quickly enough to recompense our pain, 

If to the bulls and cows we take good heed ; — 
And thou, though somewhat over-fond of gain. 

Grudge me not half the profit." — Having spoke. 

The shell he proffer'd, and Apollo took ; 

LXXXV. 

And gave him in return the glittering lash, 
Insialling him as herdsman ; — from the look 

Of Mercury then laugh 'd a joyous flash. 
And then Apollo with the plectrum strook 

The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash 
Of mighty sounds rush'd up, whose music shook 

The soul with sweetness ; as of an adept 

His sweeter voice a just accordance kept. 

LXXXVL 

The herd went wandering o'er the divine mead, 
Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter 

Won their swift way up to the snowy head 
Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre 

Soothing their journey ; and their father dread 
Gather'd them both into familiar 

Affection sweet, — and then, and now, and ever, 

Hermes must love him of the Golden Quiver, 

LXXXVII. 

To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded. 
Which skilfully he held and play'd thereon. 

He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded 
The echo of his pipings ; every one 

Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded, 
While he conceived another piece of fun. 

One of his old tricks — which the God of Day 

Perceiving, said :— " I fear thee. Son of May ; — 



LXXXVIII. 
I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, 
Lest thou shouldst steal my lyre and crooked bow 
This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit, 

To teach all craft upon the earth below ; 
Thieves love and worship thee — it is thy merit 

To make all mortal business ebb and flow 
By roguery : — now, Hermes, if you dare, 
By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear 

LXXXIX. 

" That you will never rob me, you will do 
A thing extremely pleasing to my heart." 

Then Mercury sware by the Stygian dew. 
That he would never steal his bow or dart, 

Or lay his hands on what to him was due. 
Or ever would employ his powerful art 

Against his Pythian fane. Then Phajbus swore 

There was no God or man whom he loved more. 

XC. 

" And I will give thee as a good-will token. 
The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness ; 

A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken. 
Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless ; 

And whatsoever by Jove's voice is spoken 
Of earthly or divine from its recess, 

It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak. 

And more than this do thou forbear to seek. 

XCI. 

" For, dearest child, the divinations high 
Which thou requirest, 'tis unlawful ever 

That thou, or any other deity 

Should understand — and vain were the endeavor 

For they are hidden in Jove's mind, and I 

In trust of them, have sworn that I would never 

Betray the counsels of Jove's inmost will 

To any God — the oath was terrible. 

XCII. 

" Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not 
To speak the fates by Jupiter designed j 

But be it mine to tell their various lot 

To the unnumber'd tribes of human-kind. 

Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought 
As I dispense — but he who comes consign'd 

By voice and wings of perfect augury 

To my great shrine, shall find avail in me. 

XCIII. 
" Him will I not deceive, but will assist ; 

But he who comes relying on such birds 
As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist 

The purpose of the Gods with idle words. 
And deems their knowledge light, he shall have mist 

His road — whilst I among my other hoards 
His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May ! 
I have another wondrous thing to say : 

XCIV. 

" There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who 
Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings. 

Their heads with flour snowed over white and new. 
Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings 

Its circling skirts — from these I have learn'd trijo 
Vaticinations of remotest things. 

My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, 

They sit apart and feed on honeycombs. 
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245 



xcv. 

« They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow 
Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter 

With earnest wilUngness the truth they know ; 
But if deprived of tliat sweet food, they mutter 

All plausible delusions ; — these to you 

I give ; — if you inquire, they will not stutter ; 

Delight your own soul with them : — any man 

You would instruct, may profit, if he can. 

XCVI. 
"fTake these and the fierce oxen, Maia's child — 

O'er many a horse and toil-enduring mule. 
O'er jagg'd-jaw'd lions, and the wild 

White-tusked boars, o'er all, by field or pool, 
Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild 

Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule — 
Thou dost alone the veil of death uplift — 
Thou givest not — yet this is a great gift." 

XCVII. 
Thus king Apollo loved the child of May 

In truth, and Jove cover'd them with love and joy. 
Hermes wilh Gods and men even from that day 

Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy, 
And little profit, going far astray 

Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy, 
Of Jove and Maia sprung, — never by me. 
Nor thou, nor other songs shall unremember'd be. 



THE CYCLOPS; 
A SATIRIC DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES. 



SiLENUS. 

Chorus of Satyrs. 

Ulysses. 
The Cyclops. 



O, Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now 

And ere these limbs were overworn with age, 

Have I endured for thee ! First, when thou fledd'st 

The mountain-nymphs who nurst thee, driven afar 

By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee ; 

Then in the battle of the sons of Earth, 

When I stood foot by foot close to thy side. 

No unpropitious fellow-combatant. 

And driving through his shield my winged spear, 

Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now. 

Is it a dream of which I speak to thee ? 

By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies ! 

And now I suffer more than all before. 

For when I heard that Juno had devised 

A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea 

With all my children quaint in search of you ; 

And I myself stood on the beaked prow 

And fix'd the naked mast, and all my boys 

Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain 

Made white with foam the green and purple sea, — 

And so we sought you, king. We were sailing 

Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, 

And drove us to this wild -^tnean rock ; 

The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, 



The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit. 

On this wild shore, their solitary caves. 

And one of these, named Polypheme, has caught us 

To be his slaves ; and so, for all delight 

Of Bacchic sports, sweet dan§e and melody. 

We keep this lawless giant's wandering flocks. 

My sons indeed, on far declivities. 

Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, 

But I remain to fill the water-casks. 

Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering 

Some impious and abominable meal 

To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it ! 

And now I must scrape up the litter'd floor 

With this great iron rake, so to receive 

My absent master and his evening sheep 

In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see 

My children tending the flocks hither ward. 

Ha ! what is this ? are your Sicinnian measiires 

Even now the same, as when with dance and song 

You brought young Bacchus to Athaea's halls ? 



CHORUS OJF SATYRS. 



Where has he of race divine 
Wander'd in the winding rocks ? 
Here the air is calm and fine 
For the father of the flocks ; — 
Here the grass is soft and sweet. 
And the river-eddies meet 
In the trough beside the cave, 
Bright as in their fountain wave. 
Neither here, nor on the dew 
Of the lawny uplands feeding ? 
Oh, you come ! — a stsne at you 
Will I throw to mend your breeding ; 
Get along, you horned thing. 
Wild, seditious, rambling! 

EPODE.* 

An lacchic melody 

To the golden Aphrodite 

Will I lift, as erst did I 

Seeking her and her delight 

With the Maenads, whose white feet 

To the music glance and fleet. 

Bacchus, O beloved ! where, 

Shaking wide thy yellow hair, 

Wanderest thou alone, afar ? 

To the one-eyed Cyclops, we, 

Who by right thy servants are, 

Minister in misery, 

In these wretched goat-skins clad, 

Far from thy delights and thee. 

SILENUS. 

Be silent, sons ; command the slaves to drive 
The gather'd flocks into the rock-rooPd cave. 

CHORUS. 

Go ! — But what needs this serious haste, father? 

SILENUS. 

I see a Greek ship's boat upon the coast. 
And thence the rowers with some general 
Approaching to this cave. About their necka 
Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food. 
And water-flasks. — O, miserable strangers ! 



* The Antistrophe is omitted. 
493 



246 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whence come they, that they know not what and who 

My master is, approaching in ill hour 

The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, 

And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying ? 

Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 

Whence coming, they arrive at the ^tnean hilL 

ULYSSES. 

Friends, can you show me some clear water spring, 
The remedy of our thirst ? Will any one 
Furnish with food seamen in want of it ? 
Ha ! what is this ? — We seem to be arrived 
At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe 
This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. 
First let me greet the elder. — Hail ! 

SILENUS. 

Hail thou, 

Stranger! tell thy country and thy race. 

ULYSSES. 

The Tthacan Ulysses and the king 
Of Cephalonia. 

SILENUS. 

Oh ! I know the man, 
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. 

ULYSSES. 

1 am the same, but do not rail upon me.— 

SILENUS. 

Whence sailing do you come to Sicily ? 

ULYSSES. 

From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. 

SILENUS. 

How, touch'd you not at your paternal shore ? 

ULYSSES. 

The Strength of tempests bore me here by force. 

SILENUS. 

The self-same accident occurr'd to me. 

ULYSSES. 

Were you then driven here by stress of weather ? 

SILENUS. 

Following the pirates who had kidnapp'd Bacchus. 

ULYSSES. 

What land is this, and who inhabit it ? — 

SILENUS. 

^tna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. 

ULYSSES. 

And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns ? 

SILENUS. 

There are not : these lone rocks are bare of men. 

ULYSSES. 

And who possess the land ? the race of beasts ? 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. 

ULYSSES. 

Obe)ring whom ? Or is the state popular ? 

SILENUS. 

Shepherds : no one obeys any in aught. 

ULYSSES. 

How live they ? do they sow the corn of Ceres I 

SILENUS. 

On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. 

ULYSSES. 

Have they the Bromian drink from the vine's stream ? 

SILENUS. 

Ah no ! they live in an ungracious land. 



And are they just to strangers ? — hospitable ? 



SILENUS. 

They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings 
Is his own flesh. 



What ! do they eat man's flesh ? 

SILENUS. 

No one comes here who is not eaten up. 

ULYSSES. 

The Cyclops now — Where is he ? Not at home ? 

SILENUS. 

Absent on iEtna, hunting with his dogs. 

ULYSSES. 

Know'st thou what thou must do to aid us hence ? 

SILENUS. 

I know not : we will help you all we can. 

ULYSSES. 

Provide us food, of which we are in want. 

SILENUS. 

Here is not any thing, as I said, but meat. 

ULYSSES. 

But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. 

SILENUS. 

Cow's milk there is, and store of curdled cheese. 

ULYSSES. 

Bring out : — I would see all before I bargain. 

SILENUS. 

But how much gold will you engage to give ? 

ULYSSES. 

I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. 

SILENUS. 

Ojoy! 
'Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine 

ULYSSES. 

Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. 

SILENUS. 

Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. 

ULYSSES. 

The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge. 

SILENUS. 

Have you it now ? — or is it in the ship ? 

ULYSSES. 

Old man, this skin contains it, which you see. 

SILENUS. 

Why this would hardly be a mouthful for me. 

ULYSSES. 

Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. 

SILENUS. 

You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. 

ULYSSES. 

Would you first taste of the unmingled wine ? 

SILENUS. 

'Tis just — tasting invites the purchaser. 

ULYSSES. 

Here is the cup, together with the skin. 

SILENUS. 

Pour — that the draught may fillip my remembrance, 

ULYSSES. 

See! 

SILENUS. 

Papaiapsex ! what a sweet smell it has ! 

ULYSSES. 

You see it then ? — 

SILENUS. 

By Jove, no ! but I smell it. 

ULYSSES. 

Taste, that you may not praise it in words only. 
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247 



SILEI»US. 

Babai ! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance ! 
Joy! joy! 

ULYSSES. 

Did it flow sweetly down your throat ? 

SILENUS. 

So that it tingled to my very nails. 



And in addition I will give you gold. 

SILENUS. 

Let gold alone ! only unlock the cask. 



Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat. 

SILENUS. 

That will I do, despising any master. 
Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give 
All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains. 

******* 

CHORUS. 

Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen ? 

ULYSSES. 

And utterly destroy'd the race of Priam. 



The wanton wretch ! she was bewitch'd to see 

The many-color'd anklets and the chain 

Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris, 

And so she left that good man Menelaus. 

There should be no more women in the world 

But such as are reserved for me alone. — 

See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses, 

Here are unsparing cheeses of press'd milk ; 

Take them ; depart with what good speed ye may ; 

First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew 

Of joy-inspiring grapes. 

ULYSSES. 

Ah me! Alas! 
What shall we do ? the Cyclops is at hand ! 
Old man, we perish ! whither can we fly ? 

SILENUS. 

Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock. 

ULYSSES. 

'Twere perilous to fly into the net. 

SILENUS. 

The cavern has recesses numberless ; 
Hide yourselves quick. 

ULYSSES. 

That will I never do ! 
The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced 
If I should fly one man. How many times 
Have I withstood, with shield immovable. 
Ten thousand Phrygians ! — if I needs must die, 
Yet will I die with glory : — if I live, 
The praise which I have gain'd will yet remain. 

SILENUS. 

What, ho ! assistance, comrades, haste assistance ! 
The Cyclops, Silenus, Ulysses ; Chorus. 

CYCLOPS. 

What is this tumult ? Bacchus is not here. 

Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. 

How are my young lambs in the cavern ? Milking 

Their dams or playing by their sides ? And is 

The new cheese press'd into the buUrush baskets ? 

Speak ! I '11 beat some of you till you rain tears — 

Look up, not downwards, when I speak to you. 



SILENUS. 

See ! I now gape at Jupiter himself, 
I ;:tare upon Orion and the stars. 

CYCLOPS. 

Well, is the dinner fitly cook'd and laid ? 

SILENUS. 

All ready, if your throat is ready too. 

CYCLOPS. 

Are the bowls full of milk besides? 

SILENUS. 

O'erbrimming , 
So you may drink a tunful if you will. 

CYCLOPS. 

Is it ewe's milk or cow's milk, or both mix'd ? — 

SILENUS. 

Both, either; only pray don't swallow me. 

CYCLOPS. 

By no means. 

* * * 

What is this crowd I see beside the stalls ? 
Outlaws or thieves ? for near my cavern-home, 
I see my young lambs coupled two by two 
With willow bands ; mix'd with my cheeses lie 
Their implements ; and this old fellow here 
Has his bald head broken with stripes. 

SILENUS. 

Ah me! 
I have been beaten till I bum with fever. 

CYCLOPS. 

By whom ? Who laid his fist upon your head ? 

SILENUS. 

Those men, because I would not suffer them 
To steal your goods. 

CYCLOPS. 

Did not the rascals know 
I am a God, sprung from the race of heaven ? 

SILENUS. 

I told them so, but they bore oflf your things. 
And ate the cheese in spite of all I said. 
And carried out the lambs — and said, moreover. 
They'd pin you down with a three-cubit collar. 
And pull your vitals out through your one eye. 
Torture your back with stripes, then binding you, 
Throw you as ballast into the ship's hold. 
And then deliver you, a slave, to move 
Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. 

CYCLOPS. 

In truth ? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly 

The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth. 

And kindle it, a great fagot of wood — 

As soon as they are slaughter'd, they shall fill 

My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, 

Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. 

I am quite sick of the wild mountain game ; 

Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, 

And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. 

SILENUS. 

Nay, master, something new is very pleasant 

After one thing for ever, and of late 

Very few strangers have approach'd our cave. 

ULYSSES. 

Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side. 
We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship 
Into the neighborhood of your cave, and here 
This old Silenus gave us in exchange 
These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank, 
495 



248 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And all by mutual compact, without force. 
There is no word of truth in what he says, 
For slily he was selling all your store. 

SILENUS. 

I ? May you perish, wretch — 

ULYSSES. 

If I speak false ! 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee, 
By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, 
Calypso and the glaucous ocean Nymphs, 
The sacred waves, and all the race of fishes — ' 
Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master. 
My darling little Cyclops, that I never 
Gave any of your stores to these false strangers ; — 
If I speak false, may those whom most I love, 
My children, perish wretchedly ! 

CHORUS. 

There stop! 
I saw him givmg these things to the strangers. 
If I speak false, then may my father perish, 
But do not thou wrong hospitality. 

CYCLOPS. 

You lie ! I swear that he is juster far 

Than Rhadamanthus — I trust more in him. 

But let me ask, whence have ye sail'd, O strangers ? 

Who are you? And what city nourish'd ye? 

ULYSSES. 

Our race is Ithacan — having destroy'd 
The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea 
Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme. 

CYCLOPS. 

What ! have ye shared in the unenvied spoil 
Of the false Helen, near Scamander's stream ? 

ULYSSES. 

The same, having endured a woful toil. 

CYCLOPS. 

O, basest expedition ! sail'd ye not 

From Greece to Phrygia for one woman's sake ? 

ULYSSES. 

'T was the Gods' work — no mortal was in fault. 
But, O great offspring of the ocean-king. 
We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom, 
That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee. 
And place no impious food within thy jaws. 
For in the depths of Greece we have uprear'd 
Temples to thy great father, which are all 
His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus 
Remains inviolate, and each dim recess 
Scoop'd high on the Malean promontory. 
And aery Sunium's silver-veined crag, 
Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever. 
The Gerastian asylums, and whate'er 
Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept 
From Phrygian contumely ; and in which 
You have a common care, for you inhabit 
The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots 
Of ^tna and its crags, spotted with fire. 
Turn then to converse under human laws. 
Receive us shipwreck'd suppliants, and provide 
Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts ; 
Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spi^ 
Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. 
Priam's wide land has widow'd Greece enough ; 
And weapon-winged murder heap'd together 
Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless 



And ancient women and gray fathers wail 

Their childless age ; — if you should roast the rest, 

And 'tis a bitter feast that you prepare, 

Where then would any turn ? Yet be persuaded ; 

Forego the lust of your jaw-bone ; prefer 

Pious humanity to wicked will : 

Many have bought too dear their evil joys. 

SILENUS. 

Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel 
Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue 
You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops ! 



Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise man's God, 

All other things are a pretence and boast. 

What are my father's ocean promontories. 

The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me ? 

Stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove's thunderbolt, 

I know not that his strength is more than mine. 

As to the rest, I care not : — Wlien he pours 

Rain from above, I have a close pavilion 

Under this rock, in which I lie supine. 

Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast. 

And drinking pans of milk ; and gloriously 

Emulating the thunder of high heaven. 

And when the Thracian wind pours down the sno\» 

I wrap my body in the skins of beasts. 

Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. 

The earth, by force, whether it will or no. 

Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds, 

Which, to what other God but to myself 

And this great belly, first of deities, 

Should I be bound to sacrifice ? I well know 

The wise man's only Jupiter is this. 

To eat and drink during his little day, 

And give himself no care. And as for those 

Who complicate with laws the life of man, 

I freely give them tears for their reward. 

I will not cheat my soul of its delight. 

Or hesitate in dining upon you : — 

And that I may be quit of all demands, 

These are my hospitable gifts ; — fierce fire 

And yon ancestral caldron, which o'erbubbling, 

Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. 

Creep in ! — 



Ay ! ay ! I have escaped the Trojan toils, 
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall 
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. 
O Pallas, mistress. Goddess, sprung from Jove, 
Now, now, assist me ! mightier toils than Troy 
Are these. — I totter on the chasms of peril ; — 
And thou who inhabitest the thrones 
Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, 
Upon this outrage of thy deity. 
Otherwise be consider'd as no God ! 

CHORUS {alone). 
For your gaping gulf, and your gullet wide. 
The ravine is ready on every side. 
The limbs of the strangers are cook'd and done. 
There is boil'd meat, and roast meat, and meat from 

the coal. 
You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun, 
A hairy goat's-skin contains the whole. 
Let me but escape, and ferry me o'er 
The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. 
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249 



The Cyclops ^tnean is cruel and bold, 
He murders the strangers 
That sit on his hearth, 
And dreads no avengers 
To rise from the earth. 
He roasts the men before they are cold, 
He snatches them broiling from the coal, 
And from the caldron pulls them whole. 
And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone 
With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. 

Farewell, foul pavilion! 

Farewell, rites of dread ! 
The Cyclops vermilion. 
With slaughter uncloying. 

Now feasts on the dead, 
In the flesh of strangers joying ! 

ULYSSES. 

Jupiter ! I saw within the cave 

Horrible things; deeds to be feign'd in words, 

But not believed as being done. 

CHORUS. 

"What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme 
Feasting upon your loved companions now ? 

ULYSSES. 

Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd. 
He grasp'd them in his hands. 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy man ! 
****** 

ULYSSES. 

Soon as we came into this craggy place. 

Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth 

The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, 

Three wagon-loads at least ; and then he strew'd 

Upon the ground, beside the red fire-light, 

His couch of pine leaves ; and he milk'd the cows, 

And pouring forth the white milk, fiU'd a bowl 

Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much 

As would contain four amphorae, and bound it 

With ivy wreaths ; then placed upon the fire 

A brazen pot to boil, and made red-hot 

The points of spits, not sharpen'd with the sickle, 

But with a fruit-tree bough, and with the jaws 

Of axes for iEtnean slaughterings.* 

And when this God-abandon'd cook of hell 

Had made all ready, he seized two of us 

And kill'd them in a kind of measured manner ; 

For he flung one against the brazen rivets 

Of the huge caldron, and seized the other 

By the foot's tendon, and knock'd out his brains 

Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone : 

Then peel'd his flesh with a great cooking-knife. 

And put him down to roast. The other's limbs 

He chopp'd into the caldron to be boil'd. 

And I with the tears raining from my eyes. 

Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him ; 

The rest, in the recesses of the cave. 

Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear. 

When he was fiU'd with my companions' flesh, 

He threw himself upon the ground, and sent 

A lothesome exhalation from his maw. 

Then a divine thought came to me. I fiU'd 

The cup of Maron, and I ofFer'd him 



* I confess 1 do not understand this.—J^oteof the Author. 
3N 



To taste, and said :— " Child of the Ocean God, 

Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce, 

The exultation and the joy of Bacchus." 

He, satiated with his unnatural food, 

Received it, and at one draught drank it ofl^ 

And taking my hand, praised me : " Thou hast given 

A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest." 

And I, perceiving that it pleased him, fiU'd 

Another cup, well knowing that the wine 

Would wound him soon, and take a sure revenge. 

And the charm fascinated him, and I 

Plied him cup after cup, until the drink 

Had warm'd his entrails, and he sang aloud 

In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen 

A hideous discord — and the cavern rung. 

I have stolen out, so that if you will 

You may achieve my safety and your own. 

But say, do you desire, or not, to fly 

This uncompanionable man, and dwell, 

As was your wont, among the Grecian nymphs 

Within the fanes of your beloved God ? 

Your father there within agrees to it ; 

But he is weak and overcome with wine ; 

And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup, 

He claps his wings and crows in doting joy. 

You who are young, escape with me, and find 

Bacchus your ancient friend ; unsuited he 

To this rude Cyclops. 

CHORUS. 

Oh my dearest friend, 
That I could see that day, and leave for ever 
The impious Cyclops ! 

****** 

ULYSSES. 

Listen then what a punishment I have 
For this fell monster, how secure a flight 
From your hard servitude. 

CHORUS. 

Oh sweeter far 
Than is the music of an Asian lyre 
Would be the news of Polyphemfe destroy'd. 

ULYSSES. 

Delighted with the Bacchic drink, he goes 
To call his brother Cyclops — who inhabit 
A village upon iEtna not far offi 

CHORUS. 

I understand, catching him when alone 
You think by some measure to dispatch him. 
Or thrust him from the precipice. 



Ono! 
Nothing of that kind ; my device is subtle. 

CHORUS. 

How then ? I heard of old that thou wert wise. 

ULYSSES. 

I will dissuade him from this plan, by sayinig 
It were unwise to give the Cyclopses 
This precious drink, which if enjoy'd alone 
Would make life sweeter for a longer time. 
When vanquish'd by the Bacchic power, he sleeps ; 
There is a trunk of olive-wood within. 
Whose point, having made sharp with this good-sword, 
I will conceal in fire, and when I see 
It is ahght, will fix it, burning yet. 
Within the socket of the Cyclops' eye, 
And melt it out with fire : as when a man 
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Turns by its handle a great auger round, 
Fitting the frame-work of a ship with beams, 
So will I, in the Cyclops' fiery eye. 
Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up. 

CHORUS. 

Joy ! I am mad with joy at your device. 

ULYSSES. 

And then with you, my friends, and the old man, 
We '11 load the hollow depth of our black ship. 
And row with double strokes from this dread shore. 

CHORUS. 

May I, as in libations to a God, , 

Share in the blinding him with the red brand ! 

I would have some communion in his death. 

ULYSSES. 

Doubtless : the brand is a great brand to hold. 

CHORUS. 

Oh ! I would lift a hundred wagon-ldads. 

If like a wasp's nest I could scoop the eye out 

Of the detested Cyclops. 

ULYSSES. 

Silence now ! 
Ye know the close device — and when I call, 
Look ye obey the masters of the craft. 
I will not save myself and leave behind 
My comrades in the cave : I might escape. 
Having got clear from that obscure recess, 
But 'twere unjust to leave in jeopardy 
The dear companions who sail'd here with me. 

CHORUS. 

Come ! who is first, that with his hand 
Will urge down the burning brand 
Through the lids, and quench and pierce 
The Cyclops' eye so fiery fierce ? 

SEMI-CHORUS I. 

Song within. 
Listen ! listen ! he is coming, 
' A most hideous discord humming, 
Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling. 
Far along his rocky dwelling ; 
Let us with some comic spell 
Teach the yet unteachable. 
By all means he must be blinded, 
If my council be but minded. 

SEMI-CHORUS II. 

Happy those made odorous 

With the dew which sweet grapes weep ! 

To the village hastening thus, 

Seek the vines that soothe to sleep, 

Having first embraced thy friend, 

There in luxury without end. 

With the strings of yellow hair, 

Of thy voluptuous leman fair, 

Shalt sit playing on a bed ! — 

Speak ! what door is opened ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha! ha! ha! I'm full of wine, 
Heavy with the joy divine. 
With the young feast oversated. 
Like a merchant's vessel freighted 
To the water's edge, my crop 
Is laden to the gullet's top. 



The fresh meadow-grass of spring 

Tempts me forth thus wandering 

To my brothers on the mountains. 

Who shall share the wine's sweet fountains. 

Bring the cask, O stranger, bring ! 

CHORUS. 

One with eyes the fairest 

Cometh from his dwelling ; 

Some one loves thee, rarest, 

Bright beyond my telling. 

In thy grace thou shinest 

Like some nymph divinest, 

In her caverns dewy : — 

All delights pursue thee, 

Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing. 

Shall thy head be wreathing. 

ULYSSES. 

Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skill'd 
In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. 

CYCLOPS. 

What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted ? 

ULYSSES. 

The greatest among men for joy of life. 

CYCLOPS. 

I gulp'd him down with very great delight. 

ULYSSES. 

This is a God who never injures men. 

CYCLOPS. 

How does the God like living in a skin ? 

ULYSSES. 

He is content wherever he is put. 

CYCLOPS. 

Gods should not have their body in a skin. 

ULYSSES. 

If he gives joy, what is his skin to you ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I hate the skin, but love the wine within. 

ULYSSES. 

Stay here ; now drink, and make your spirit glad. 

CYCLOPS. 

Should I not share this liquor with my brothers ? 

ULYSSES. 

Keep it yourselfj and be more honor'd so. 

CYCLOPS. 

I were more useful, giving to my friends. 

ULYSSES. 

But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows. 

CYCLOPS. 

When I am drunk, none shall lay hands on me. — 

ULYSSES. 

A drunken man is better within doors. 

CYCLOPS. 

He is a fool who, drinking, loves not mirth. 

ULYSSES. 

But he is wise who, drunk, remains at home. 

CYCLOPS. . 

What shall I do, Silenus ? Shall I stay ? 

SILENUS. 

Stay — for what need have you of pot-companions ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Indeed this place is closely carpeted 
With flowers and grass. 

SILKNUS. 

And in the sun-warm noon 

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



251 



'Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, 
Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. 

CVCLOPS. 

What do you put the cup behind me for? 

SILENUS. 

That no one here may touch it. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thievish one ! 
You want to drink ; — here, place it in the midst. 
And thou, O stranger, tell, how art thou called ? 



My name is Nobody. What favor now 
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I'll feast on you the last of your companions. 



You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue! 

SILENUS. 

It was this stranger kissing me because 
I look'd so beautiful. 

CYCLOPS. 

You shall repent 
For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. 

SILENUS. 

By Jupiter ! you said that I am fair. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour out, and only give me the cup full. 

SILENUS. 

How is it mixed ? let me observe. 

CYCLOPS. 

Curse you ! 
Give it me so. 

SILENUS. 

Not till I see you wear 
That coronal, and taste the cup to you. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thou wily traitor ! 

SILENUS. 

But the wine is sweet. 
Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. 

CYCLOPS. 

See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. 

SILENUS. 

Now put your elbow right and drink again. 
As you see me drink — * * * * 

CYCLOPS. 

How now ? 

SILENUS. 

Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Guest, take it ; — you pour out the wine for me. 

ULYSSES. 

The wine is well accustom' d to my hand. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour out the wine ! 

ULYSSES. 

I pour ; only be silent. 

CYCLOPS. 

Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. 



Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. 
O, that the drinker died with his ovm draught ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Papal ! the vine must be a sapient plant. 



ULYSSES. 

If you drink much gifter a mighty feast. 
Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well i 
If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ho ! ho ! I can scarce rise. What pure delight ! 
The heavens and earth appear to whirl about 
Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove 
And the clear congregation of the Gods. 
Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss, 
I would not; for the loveliest of them all 
I would not leave this Ganymede. 

SILENUS. 

Polypheme, 
I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. 

CYCLOPS. 

By Jove, you are ! I bore you off from Dardanus. 

Ulysses and the Chorus. 



Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race, 

This man within is folded up in sleep, 

And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw ; 

The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke, 

No prjeparation needs, but to burn out 

The monster's eye ; — but bear yourselves like men. 

CHORUS. 

We will have courage like the adamant rock- 
All things are ready for you here ; go in. 
Before our father shall perceive the noise. 



Vulcan, yEtnean king ! burn out with fire 

The shining eye of this thy neighboring monster ! 

And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy night. 

Descend unmix'd on this God-hated beast. 

And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades. 

Returning from their famous Trojan toils. 

To perish by this man, who cares not either 

For God or mortal ; or I needs must think 

That Chance is a supreme divinity. 

And things divine are subject to her power. 

CHORUS. 

Soon a crab the throat will seize 

Of him who feeds upon his guest ; 
Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes 

In revenge of such a feast ! 
A great oak stump now is lying 
In the ashes yet undying. 

Come, Maron, come ! 
Raging let him fix the doom. 
Let him tear the eyelid up 
Of the Cyclops — that his cup 

May be evil ! 
O, I long to dance and revel 
With sweet Bromian, long-desired, 
In loved ivy-wreaths attired ; 

Leaving this abandon'd home — 

Will the moment ever come ? 

ULYSSES. 

Be silent, ye wild things ! Nay, hold your peace, 
And keep your lips quite close ; dare not to breathe, 
Or spit, or e'en wink, lest ye wake the monster, 
Until his eye be tortured out with fire. 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHORUS. 

Nay, we are silent, and we chew the air. 



Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake 
Within — it is delightfully red-hot. 

CHORUS. 

You then command who first should seize the stake 
To burn the Cyclops' eye, that all may share 
In the great enterprise. 

SEMI-CHORUS I. 

We are too few, 
We cannot at this distance from the door 
Thrust fire into his eye. 

SEMI-CHORUS II. 

And w-e just now 
Have become lame ; cannot move hand or foot 

CHORUS. 

The same thing has occurr'd to us, — our ankles 
Are sprain'd with standing here, 1 know not how. 

ULYSSES. 

What, sprain'd with standing still ? 

CHORUS. 

And there is dust 
Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. 

ULYSSES. 

Cowardly dogs ! ye will not aid me then ? 

CHORUS. 

With pitying my own back and my back-bone. 

And with not wishing all my teeth knock'd out, 

This cowardice comes of itself— but stay, 

I know a famous Orphic incantation 

To make the brand stick of its own accord 

Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. 

ULYSSES. 

Of old I knew ye thus by nature ; now 

I know ye better. — I will use the aid 

Of my own comrades — yet, though weak of hand, 

Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken 

The courage of my friends with your blithe words 

CHORUS. 

This I will do with peril of my life. 

And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops. 

Hasten and thrust, 

And parch up to dust 

The eye of the beast 

Who feeds on his guest. 

Burn and blind 

The iEtnean hind ! 

Scoop and draw, 

But beware lest he claw • 

Your limbs near his maw. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah me ! my eye-sight is parched up to cinders. 

CHORUS. 

What a sweet pagan ! sing me that again ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah me ! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me ! 
But, wretched nothings ! think ye not to flee 
Out of this rock ; I, standing at the outlet, 
Will bar the way, and catch you as you pass. 

CHORUS. 

What are you roaring out, Cyclops ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I perish ! 

CHORUS. 

For you are wicked. 



CYCLOPS. 

And besides miserable. 

CHORUS. 

What ! did you fall into the fire when drunk ? 

CYCLOPS. 

'Twas Nobody destroy'd me. 

CHORUS. 

Why then no one 
Can be to blame. 

CYCLOPS. 

I say 'twas Nobody 
Who blinded me. 

CHORUS. 

Why then you are not blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

I wish you were as blind as I am. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, 
It cannot be that no one made you blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

You jeer me ; where, I ask, is Nobody ? 

CHORUS. 

Nowhere, O Cyclops ! * * * 

CYCLOPS. 

It was that stranger ruin'd me : — the wretch 
First gave me wine and then burnt out my eyes, 
For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. 
Have they escaped, or are they yet within ? 

CHORUS. 

They stand under the darkness of the rock, 
And cling to it. 

CYCLOPS. 

At my right hand or left ? 

CHORUS. 

Close on your right. ^ 

CYCLOPS. 

Where ? 

CHORUS. 

Near the rock itself. 
You have them. 

CYCLOPS. 

Oh, misfortune on misfortune ! 
I've crack'd my skull. 

CHORUS. 

Now they escape you there. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not there, although you say so. 

CHORUS. 

Not on that side. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where then? 

CHORUS. 

They creep about you on your left. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah ! I am mock'd ! They j6er me in my ills. 

CHORUS. 

Not there ! he is a little there beyond you. 

CYCLOPS. 

Detested wretch ! where are you ? 

ULYSSES. 

Far from you 
I keep with care this body of Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS. 

What do you say ? You proflfer a new name. 



My father named me so ; and I have taken 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



253 



A full revenge for your unnatural feast; 

I should have done ill to have burn'd down Troy, 

And not revenged the murder of my comrades. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ai ! ai ! the ancient oracle is accomplish'd ; 
It said that T should have my eye-sight blinded 
By you coming from Troy ; yet it foretold 
That you should pay the penalty for this, 
By wandering long over the homeless sea. 

ULYSSES. 

I bid thee weep— consider what I say, 
I go towards the shore to drive my ship 
To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not so, if w^helming you with this huge stone 
I can crush you and all your men together ; 
I will descend upon the shore, though blind, 
Groping my way adown tlie steep ravine. 

CHORUS. 

And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now. 
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. 



SCENES 

FROM THE " MAGICO PRODIGIOSO " OF CALDERON. 

Cyprian as a Student ; Clarin and Moscon as poor 
Scholars, with books. 

CYPRIAN. 

In the sweet solitude of this calm place, 

This intricate wild wilderness of trees 

And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, 

Leave me ; the books you brought out of the house 

To me are ever best society. 

And whilst with glorious festival and song 

Antioch now celebrates the consecration 

Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 

And bears his image in loud jubilee 

To its new shrine, I would consume what still 

Lives of the dying day, in studious thought. 

Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my friends, 

Go and enjoy the festival ; it will 

Be worth the labor, and return for me 

When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, 

Which among dim gray clouds on the horizon 

Dance like white plumes upon a hearse ; — and here 

I shall expect you. 

MOSCON. 

I cannot bring my mind, 
Great as my haste to see the festival 
Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without 
Just saying some three or four hundred words. 
How is it possible that on a day 
Of such festivity, you can bring your mind 
To come forth to a solitary country 
With three or four old books, and turn your back 
On all this mirth? 

CLARIN. 

My master 's in the right ; 
There is not any thing more tiresome 
Than a procession-day, with troops of men, 
And dances, and all that. 

MOSCON. 

From first to last, 
Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer; 



You praise not what you feel, but what he does ;— 
Toad-eater ! 

CLARIN. 

You lie — under a mistake — 
For this is the most civil sort of lie 
That can be given to a man's face. I now 
Say what I think. 

CYPRIAN. 

Enough ! you foolish fellows ! 

Puff'd up with your own doting ignorance, 

You always take the two sides of one question. 

Now go, and as I said, return for me 

When night falls, veihng in its shadows wide 

This glorious fabric of the universe. 

MOSCON. 

How happens it, although you can maintain 
The folly of enjoying festivals, 
That yet you go there ? 

CLARIN. 

Nay, the consequence 
Is clear ; — who ever did what he advises 
Others to do?— 

MOSCON. 

Would that my feet were wings. 
So would I fly to Livia. [Exit 

CLARIN. 

To speak truth, 
Livia is she who has surprised my heart; 
But he is more than half-way there. — Soho! 
Livia, I come; good sport, Livia, soho! [Exit- 

CYPRIAN. 

Now, since I am alone, let me examine 

The question which has long disturb'd my mind 

With doubt ; since first I read in Plinius 

The words of mystic import and deep sense 

In which he defines God. My intellect 

Can find no God with whom these marks and signs 

Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth 

Which I must fathom. [Reads:, 

Enter the Devil, as a fine Gentleman. 

D^MON. 

Search even as thou wilt. 

But thou shalt never find what I can hide. 

CYPRIAN. 

What noise is that among the boughs ? Who moves ! 
What art thou?— 

D^MON. 

'Tis a foreign gentleman. 
Even from this morning I have lost my way 
In this wild place, and my poor horse, at last 
Quite overcome, has stretch'd himself upon 
The enamell'd tapestry of this mossy mountain, 
And feeds and rests at the same lime. I was 
Upon my way to Antioch upon business 
Of some importance, but wrapt up in cares 
(Who is exempt from this inheritance ?) 
I parted from my company, and lost 
My way, and lost my servants and my comrades. 

CYPRIAN. 

'Tis singular, that even within the sight 
Of the high towers of Antioch, you could lose 
Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths 
Of this wild wood, there is not one but leads, 
As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch ; 
Take which you will, you cannot miss your road 
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254 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And such is ignorance ! Even in the sight 
Of knowledge it can draw no profit from it. 
But as it still is early, and as 1 
Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 
Being a stranger there, I will even wait 
The few surviving hours of the day, 
Until the night shall conquer it. I see, 
Both by your dress and by the books in which 
You find delight and company, that you 
Are a great student; — for my part, I feel 
Much sympathy with such pursuits. 

CYPRIAN. 

Have you 
Studied much ? — 

D^MON. 

No, — and yet I know enough 
Not to be wholly ignorant. 

CYPRIAN. 

Pray, Sir, 
What science may you know ? — 

DAEMON. 

Many. 

CYPRIAN. 

Alas! 
Much pains must we expend on one alone, 
And even then attain it not ; — but you 
Have the presumption to assert that you 
Know many without study. 

DAEMON. 

And with truth. 
For in the country whence I come, sciences 
Require no learning, — they are known. 

CYPRIAN. 

Oh, would 
I were of that bright country ! for in this. 
The more we study, we the more discover 
Our ignorance. 

DiEMON. 

It is so true, that I 
Had so much arrogance as to oppose 
The chair of the most high professorship, 
And obtained many votes ; and though I lost. 
The attempt was still more glorious than the failure 
Could be dishonorable : if you believe not. 
Let us refer it to dispute respecting 
That which you know best, and although I 
Know not the opinion you maintain, and though 
It be the true one, I will take the contrary. 

CYPRIAN. 

The offer gives me pleasure. I am now 
Debating with myself upon a passage 
Of Plinius, and my mind is rack'd with doubt 
To understand and know who is the God 
Of whom he speaks. 

D^MON. 

It is a passage, if 
I recollect it right, couch'd in these words ; 
" God is one supreme goodness, one pure essence, 
One substance, and one sense, all sight, all hands." 

CYPRIAN. 

'Tis true. 

DiEMON. 

What diflficulty find you here ? 

CYPRIAN. 

I do not recognize among the Gods 



The God defined by PUnius ; if he must 

Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 

Is not supremely good ; because we see 

His deeds are evil, and his attributes 

Tainted with mortal weakness ; in what manner 

Can supreme goodness be consistent with 

The passions of humanity ? 

DAEMON. 

The wisdom 
Of the old world mask'd with the names of Gods 
The attributes of Nature and of Man ; 
A sort of popular philosophy. 

CYPRIAN. 

This reply will not satisfy me, for 

Such awe is due to the high name of God 

That ill should never be imputed. Then, 

Examining the question with more care. 

It follows, that the Gods should always will 

That which is best, were they supremely good. 

How then does one will one thing — one another ? 

And you may not say that I allege 

Poetical or philosophic learning : 

Consider the ambiguous responses 

Of their oracular statues ; from two shrines 

Two armies shall obtain the assurance of 

One victory. Is it not indisputable 

That two contending wills can never lead 

To the same end? And being opposite. 

If one be good, is not the other evil ? 

Evil in God is inconceivable ; 

But supreme goodness fails among the Gods 

Without their union. 

D^MON. 

I deny your major. 
These responses are means towards some end 
Unfathom'd by our intellectual beam. 
They are the work of providence, and more 
The battle's loss may profit those who lose. 
Than victory advantage those who win. 

CYPRIAN. 

That I admit, and yet that God should not 
(Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 
Assure the victory ; it would be enough 
To have permitted the defeat ; if God 
Be all sight, — God, who beheld the truth, 
Would not have given assurance of an end 
Never to be accomplish'd ; thus, although 
The Deity may, according to his attributes, 
Be well distinguish'd into persons, yet, 
Even in the minutest circumstance, 
His essence must be one. 

DAEMON. 

To attain the end, 
The affections of the actors in the scene 
Must have been thus influenced by his voice. 

CYPRIAN. 

But for a purpose thus subordinate 

He might have employed genii, good or evil, — 

A sort of spirits call'd so by the leam'd. 

Who roam about inspiring good or evil. 

And from whose influence and existence, we 

May well infer our immortality : — 

Thus God might easily, without descending 

To a gross falsehood in his proper person. 

Have moved the affections by this mediation 

To the just point. 

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



255 



DAEMON. 

These trifling contradictions 
Do not suffice to impugn the unity 
Of the high gods ; in things of great importance 
They still appear unanimous ; consider 
That glorious fabric — man, — his workmanship 
Is stamp'd with one conception. 

CYPRIAN. 

Who made man 
Must have, methinks, the advantage of the others. 
If they are equal, might they not have risen 
In opposition to the work, and being 
All hands, according to our author here, 
Have still destroyed even as the other made ? 
If equal in their power, and only unequal 
In opportunity, which of the two 
Will remain conqueror ? 

D^MON. 

On impossible 
And false hypotheses there can be built 
No argument. Say, what do you infer 
From this ? 

CYPRIAN. 

That there must be a mighty God 
Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, 
All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, 
Without an equal and without a rival ; 
The cause of all things and the effect of nothing, 
One power, one will, one substance, and one essence. 
And in whatever persons, one or two, 
His attributes may be distinguish'd, one 
Sovereign power, one solitary essence, 
One cause of all cause. [They rise. 

DAEMON. 

How can I impugn 
So clear a consequence ? 

CYPRIAN. 

Do you regret 
My victory ? 

D^MON. 

Who but regrets a check 
In rivalry of wit ? I could reply 
And urge new difficulties, but will now 
Depart, for I hear steps of men approaching, 
And it is time that I should now pursue 
My journey to the city. 

CYPRIAN. 

Go in peace ! 

DAEMON. 

Remain in peace ! Since thus it profits him 

To study, I will wrap his senses up 

In sweet oblivion of all thought, but of 

A piece of excellent beauty ; and as I 

Have power given me to wage enmity 

Against Justina's soul, I will extract 

From one effect two vengeances. [Exit. 

CYPRIAN. 

I never 
Met a more learned person. Let me now 
Revolve this doubt again with careful mind. [He reads. 

Enter Lelio and Floro. 

LELIOi 

Here stop. These toppling rocks and tangled boughs. 
Impenetrable by the noonday beam. 
Shall be sole witnesses of what we 



FLORO. 

Draw ! 
If there were words, here is the place for deeds. 

LELIO. 

Thou needest not instruct me : well I know 

That in the field the silent tongue of steel 

Speaks thus. [They fight, 

CYPRIAN. 

Ha ! what is this ? Lelio, Floro, 
Be it enough that Cyprian stands between you, 
Although unarm'd. 

LELIO. 

Whence comest thou, to stand 
Between me and my vengeance ? 

FLORO. 

From what rocks 
And desert cells ? 

Enter MoscoN and Clarin. 

MOSCON. 

Run, run ! for where we left my master 
We hear the clash of swords. 

CLARIN. 

I never 
Run to approach things of this sort, but only 
To avoid them. Sir ! Cyprian ! sir ! 

CYPRIAN. 

Be silent, fellows ! What ! two friends who are 
In blood and fame the eyes and hope of Antioch ; 
One of the noble men of the Colatti, 
The other son of the Governor, adventure 
And cast away, on some slight cause no doubt. 
Two lives the honor of their country ? 

LELIO. 

Cyprian ! 
Although my high respect towards your person 
Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst not 
Restore it to the slumber of its scabbard. 
Thou knowest more of science than the duel ; 
For when two men of honor take the field, 
No [ ] or respect can make them friends. 

But one must die in the pursuit. 

FLORO. 

I pray 
That you depart hence with your people, and 
Leave us to finish what we have begun 
Without advantage. 

CYPRIAN. 

Though you may imagine 
That I know little of the laws of duel. 
Which vanity and valor instituted. 
You are in error. By my birth I am 
Held no less than yourselves to know the limits 
Of honor and of infamy, nor has study 
Quench'd the free spirit which first order'd them; 
And thus to me, as one well experienced 
In the false quicksands of the sea of honor. 
You may refer the merits of the case ; 
And if I should perceive in your relation 
That either has the right to satisfaction 
From the other, I give you my word of honor 
To leave you. 

LELIO. 

Under this condition then 
I will relate the cause, and you will cede 
And must confess the impossibility 

503 



256 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of compromise ; for the same lady is 
Beloved by Floro and myself 

FLORO. 

It seems 
Much to me that the light of day should look 

Upon that idol of my heart — but he 

Leave us to fight, according to thy word. 

CYPRIAN. 

Permit one question further : is the lady 
Impossible to hope or not ? 

LELIO. 

She is 
So excellent, that if the light of day 
Should excite Floro's jealousy, it were 
Without just cause, for even the light of day 
Trembles to gaze on her. 



Part marry her ? 



CYPRIAN. 

Would you for your 

FLORO. 

Such is my confidence. 



^ CYPRIAN. 

And you ? 

LELIO. 

O would that I could lift my hope 
So high ! for though she is extremely poor. 
Her virtue is her dowry. 

CYPRIAN. 

And if you both 
Would marry her, is it not weak and vain, 
Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand 
To slur her honor. What would the world say 
If one should slay the other, and if she 
Should afterwards espouse the murderer ? 

[ The rivals agree to refer their quarrel to Cyprian ; 
who in consequence visits Justina, and becomes 
enamored of her : she disdains him, and he 
retires to a solitary sea-shore. 



SCENE II. 



Oh, memory ! permit it not 

That the tyrant of my thought 

Be another soul that still 

Holds dominion o'er the will. 

That would refuse, but can no more. 

To bend, to tremble, and adore. 

Vain idolatry ! — I saw, 

And gazing, became blind with error; 

Weak ambition, which the awe 

Of her presence bound to terror ' 

So beautiful she was^and I, 

Between my love and jealousy, 

Am so convulsed with hope and fear, 

Unworthy as it may appear ; — 

So bitter is the life I live, 

That, hear me, Hell ! I now would give 

To thy most detested spirit 

My soul, for ever to inherit, 

To suflTer punishment and pine, 

So this woman may be mine. 

Hear'st thou, Hell I dost thou reject it ? 

My soul is offer'd .' 



DiEMON (unseen). 
I accept it. 

[Tempest, vnth thunder and lightning 



What is this ? ye heavens for ever pure. 
At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 

Athwart the ethereal halls 
The lightning's arrow and the thunder-balls 

The day aflfright 

As from the horizon round. 

Burst with earthquake sound, 
In mighty torrents the electric fountains — 
Clouds quench the sun, and thunder-smoke 
Strangles the air, and fire eclipses heaven. 
Philosophy, thou canst not even 
Compel their causes underneath thy yoke : 
From yonder clouds even to the waves below 
The fragments of a single ruin choke 

Imagination's flight ; 
For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light, 
The ashes of the desolation cast 

Upon the gloomy blast. 
Tell of the footsteps of the storm. 
And nearer see the melancholy form 
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, 

Drives miserably ! 
And it must fly the pity of the port, 
Or perish, and its last and sole resort 
Is its own raging enemy. 

The terror of the thrilling cry 

Was a fatal prophecy 

Of coming death, who hovers now 

Upon that shatter'd prow, 

That they who die not may be dying still. 

And not alone the insane elements 

Are populous with wild portents, 

But that sad ship is as a miracle 

Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast 

It seems as if it had array'd its form 

With the headlong storm. 

It strikes — I almost feel the shock, — 

It stumbles on a jagged rock, — 

Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast. 

A Tempest — All exclaim tvithin, 
We are all lost ! 

D^MON {within). 
Now from this plank will I 
Pass to the land, and thus fulfil my scheme. 

CYPRIAN. 

As in contempt of the elemental rage 

A man comes forth in safety, while the ship's 

Great form is in a watery eclipse 

Obliterated from the Ocean's page. 

And round ite wreck the huge sea-monsterS sit, 

A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave 

Are heaped over its carcase, like a grave. 

The DiEMON ejiters, as escaped from the sea. 
( DAEMON (aside). 

It was essential to my purposes 
To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean. 
That in this unknown form I might at length 
Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture 
Sustain'd upon the mountain, and assail 
With a new war the soul of Cyprian, 
504 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



257 



Forging the instruments of his destruction 
Even from his love and from his wisdom. — Oh ! 
Beloved earth, dear mother, in thy bosom 
I seek a refuge from the monster who 
Precipitates itself upon me. 

CYPRIAN. 

Friend, 
Collect thyself; and be the memory 
Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow, 
But as a shadow of the past, — for nothing 
Beneath the circle of the moon, but flows 
And changes and can never know repose. 

DAEMON. 

And who art thou, before whose feet my fate 
Has prostrated me ? 

CYPRIAN. 

One who, moved with pity. 
Would soothe its stings. 

D^MON. 

' Oh ! that can never be ! 

No solace can my lasting sorrows find. 

CYPRIAN. 

Wherefore ? , 

D^MON. 

I Because my happiness is lost. 

I Yet I lament what has long ceased to be 

I The object of desire or memory, 

I And my life is not life. 

I CYPRIAN. 

Now, since the fury 
Of this earthquaking hurricane is still. 
And the crystaUine heaven has reassumed 
Its windless calm so quickly, that it seems 
As if its heavy wrath had been awaken'd 
Only to overwhelm that vessel, — speak, 
I Who art thou, and whence comest thou ? 

I D^MON. 

I Far more 

My coming hither cost, than thou hast seen 
[ Or I can tell. Among my misadventures 
{ This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou hear ? 

I CYPRIAN. 

j Speak. 

D^MON. 

I Since thou desirest, I will then unveil 

I Myself to thee ; — for in myself I am 

j A world of happiness and misery ; 

I This I have lost, and that I must lament 

I For ever. In my attributes I stood 

I So high and so heroically great, 

I In lineage so supreme, and with a genius 

j Which penetrated with a glance the world 
Beneath my feet, that, won by my high merit, 
A king — whom I may call the king of kings. 
Because all others tremble in their pride 
Before the terrors of his countenance, 
In his high palace, roof 'd with brightest gems 

I Of living light — call them the stars of Heaven — 
Named me his counsellor. But the high praise 

j Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose 

' In mighty competition, to ascend 
ilis seat and place my foot triumphantly 

, Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, I know 
The depth to which ambition falls ; too mad 
Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now 
Repentance of the irrevocable deed : — 
30 



Therefore I chose this ruin with the glory 
Of not to be subdued, before the shame 
Of reconciling me with him who reigns 
By coward cession. — Nor was I alone, 
Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ; 
And there was hope, and there may still be hope, 
For many suffrages among his vassals 
Hail'd me their lord and king, and many still 
Are mine, and many more, perchance, shall be. 
Thus vanquish'd, though in fact victorious, 
I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 
Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my words 
With inauspicious thunderings shook Heaven, 
Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong. 
And imprecating on his prostrate slaves 
Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then I sail'd 
Over the mighty fabric of the world, 
A pirate ambush'd in its pathless sands, 
A lynx crouch'd watchfully apiong its caves 
And craggy shores ; and I have wander'd over 
The expanse of these wide wildernesses 
In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved 
In the light breathings of the invisible wind. 
And which the sea has made a dustless ruin. 
Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests 
I seek a man, whom I must now compel 
To keep his word with me. I came array'd 
In tempest ; and although my power could well 
Bridle the forest winds in their career. 
For other causes I forbore to soothe 
Their fury to Favonian gentleness, 
I could and would not (thus I wake in him [Aside 
A love of magic art). Let not this tempest. 
Nor the succeeding calm, excite thy wonder ; 
For by my art the sun would turn as pale 
As his weak sister with unwonted fear. 
And in my wisdom are the orbs of Heaven 
Written as in a record ; I have pierced 
The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres, 
And know them as thou knowest every corner 
Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee 
That I boast vainly ; wouldst thou that I work 
A charm over this waste and savage wood. 
This Babylon of crags and aged trees. 
Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 
Thrilling and strange ? I am the friendless guest 
Of these wild oaks and pines — and as from thee 
I have received the hospitality 
Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit 
Of years of toil in recompense ; whate'er 
Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought 
As object of desire, that shall be thine. 
***** 

And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 
'Twixt thou and me be, that neither fortune. 
The monstrous phantom which pursues success. 
That careful miser, that free prodigal, 
Who ever alternates with changeful hand, 
Evil and good, reproach and fame ; nor Time, 
That load-star of the ages, to whose beam 
The winged years speed o'er the intervals 
Of their unequal revolutions ; nor 
Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars 
Rule and adorn the world, can ever make 
The least division between thee and me, 
Since now I find a refuge in thy favor. 
505 



258 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE III. 
The DAEMON tempts Justina, who is a Christian. 



Abyss of Hell ! I call on thee, 
Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy ! 
From thy prison-house set free 
The spirits of voluptuous death, 
That with their mighty breath 
They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts ; 
Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes 
Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, 
Till her guiltless phantasy 
Full to overflowing be ! 
And with sweetest harmony, 

Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all things 
move 
To love, only to love. 
Let nothing meet her eyes 
But signs of Love's soft victories ; 
Let nothing meet her ear 
But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow. 
So that from faith no succor she may borrow, 
But, guided by my spirit bhnd 
And in a magic snare entwined, 
She may now seek Cyprian. 
Begin, while I in silence bind 
My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast begun. 

A VOICE WITHIN. 

What is the glory far above 
All else in human life ? 

ALL. 

Love ! love ! 
[While these words are sung, the Dmmoj^ goes out 
at one door, and Justina enters at another. 

THE first voice. 

There is no form in which the fire 
Of love its traces has impress'd not 
Man lives far more in love's desire 
Than by life's breath, soon possess'd not. 
If all that lives must love or die. 
All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, 
With one consent to Heaven cry 
That the glory far above 
All else in life is — 

ALL. 

Love ! O love ! 

JUSTINA. 

Thou melancholy thought which art 
So fluttering and so sweet, to thee 
When did I give the liberty 
Thus to afflict my heart ? 
What is the cause of this new power 
Which doth my fever'd being move. 
Momently raging more and more? 
What subtle pain is kindled now 
Which from my heart doth overflow 
Into my senses ? — 

ALL. 

Love, O love ! 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis that enamor'd nightingale 
Who gives me the reply ; 
He ever tells the same soft tale 
Of passion and of constancy 



To his mate, who rapt and fond 

Listening sits, a bough beyond. 

Be silent, Nightingale — no more 

Make me think, in hearing thee 

Tlius tenderly thy love deplore. 

If a bird can feel his so, 

What a man would feel for me. 

And, voluptuous vine, O thou '^ 

Who seekest most when least pursuing, — 

To the trunk thou interlacest 

Art the verdure which embracest, 

And the weight which is its ruin, — 

No more, with green embraces, vine. 

Make me think on what thou lovest, — 

For whilst thou thus thy boughs entwine, 

I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist. 

How arms might be entangled too. 

Light-enchanted sunflower, thou 

Who gazest ever true and tender 

On the sun's revolving splendor! 

Follow not his faithless glance 

With thy faded countenance. 

Nor teach my beating heart to fear. 

If leaves can mourn without a tear, 

How eyes must weep ! O Nightingale, 

Cease from thy enamor'd tale, — 

Leafy vine, unwreathe thy bower. 

Restless sunflower, cease to move, — 

Or tell me all, what poisonous power 

Ye use against me — 

ALL. 

Love ! love ! love ! 

JUSTINA. 

It cannot be ! — Whom have I ever loved ? 
Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
Floro and Lelio did I not reject ? 
And Cyprian ? — 

[She becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian. 
Did I not requite him 
With such severity, that he has fled 
Where none has ever heard of him again ? — 
Alas ! I now begin to fear that this 
May be the occasion whence desire grows bold, 
As if there were no danger. From the moment 
That I pronounced to my own listening heart, 
Cyprian is absent, O me miserable ! 
I know not what I feel ! [M(yre calmly. 

It must be pity. 
To think that such a man, whom all the world 
Admired, should be forgot by all the world. 
And I the cause. [She again becomes troubled. 

And yet if it were pity, 
Floro and Lelio might have equal share. 
For they are both imprison'd for my sake. [Calmly. 
Alas ! what reasonings are these ? it is 
Enough I pity him, and that in vain, 
Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
And woe is me ! I know not where to find him now, 
Even should I seek him through this wide world. 

Enter D^mon. 

d-«;mon. 
Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. 

JUSTINA. 

And who art thou, who hast found entrance hither. 
Into ray chamber through the doors and lock* ? 
506 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



259 



Art thou a monstrous shadow which my madness 
Has form'd in the idle air ? 

DAEMON. 

No. I am one 
Call'd by the thought which tyrannizes thee 
From his eternal dwelling ; who this day 
Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 

JUSTINA. 

So shall thy promise fail. This agony 
Of passion which afflicts my heart and soul 
May sweep imagination in its storm ; 
The will is firm. 

D^MON. 

Already half is done 
In the imagination of an act. 
The sin incurr'd, the pleasure then remain^ ; 
Let not the will stop half-way on the road. 

JUSTINA. 

I will not be discouraged, nor despair, 
Although I thought it, and although 'tis true, 
That thought is but a prelude to the deed ; 
Thought is not in my power, but action is : 
I will not move my foot to follow thee. 

D^MON. 

But far a mightier wisdom than thine own 
Exerts itself within thee, with such power 
Compelling thee to that which it inclines 
That it shall force thy step ; how wilt thou then 
Resist, Justina ? 

JUSTINA. 

By my free-will. 

D^MON. 

I 

Must force thy will. 

JUSTINA. 

It is invincible ; 
It were not free if thou hadst power upon it. - 

[He draws, but cannot move her. 

DiEMON. 

Come, where a pleasure waits thee. 

JUSTINA. 

It were bought 
Too dear. 

D^MON. 

'Twill soothe thy heart to softest peace. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis dread captivity. 

D^MON. 

'Tis joy, 'tis glory. ' 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis shame, 'tis torment, 'tis despair. 

D^MON. 

But how 
Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, 
If my power drags thee onward ? 

JUSTINA. 

My defence 
Consists in God. 

[He vainly endeavors to force her, and at last re- 
leases her. 

D^MON. 

Woman, thou hast subdued me, 
Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
But since thou thus findest defence in God, 
I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
For I will mask a spirit in thy form, 



Who will betray thy name to infamy. 

And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss. 

First by dishonoring thee, and then by turning 

False pleasure to true ignominy. [Exit 

JUSTINA. 

I 

Appeal to Heaven against thee ; so that Heaven 
May scatter thy delusions, and the blot 
Upon my fame vanish in idle thought, 
Even as flame dies in the envious air. 
And as the floweret wanes at morning frost. 

And thou should st never But^ alas ! to whom 

Do I still speak ? — Did not a man but now 
Stand here before me ? — No, I am alone, 
And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly ? 
Or can the heated mind engender shapes 
From its own fear? Some terrible and strange 
Peril is near. Lisander ! father ! lord ! 
Livia ! — 

Enter Lisander and LiviA. 

LISANDER. 

O, ray daughter ! What ? 

LIVIA. 

What ? 

JUSTINA. 

Saw you 
A man go forth from my apartment now ? 
I scarce sustain myself! 

LISANDER. 

A man here ! 

JUSTINA. 

Have you not seen him ? 

LIVIA. 

No, lady- 

JUSTINA. 

I saw him. 

LISANDER. 

'Tis impossible; the doors 
Which led to this apartment were all lock'd. 

LIVIA (aside). 
I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw, 
For he was lock'd up in my room. 

LISANDER. 

It must 
Have been some image of thy phantasy : 
Such melancholy as thou feedest, is 
Skilful in forming such in the vain air 
Out of the motes and atoms of the day. 

LIVIA. 

My master's in the right. 

JUSTINA. 

O, would it were 
Delusion ! But I fear some greater ill. 
I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 
My heart were torn in fragments ; ay, 
Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame ; 
So potent was the charm, that had not God 
Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, 
I should have sought my sorrow and my shame 
With willing steps. — Livia, quick bring my cloak, 
For I must seek refuge from these extremes 
Even in the temple of the highest God 
Which secretly the faithful worship. 

LIVIA. 

Here. 

507 



2G0 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



JUSTINA (putting on her cloak). 
In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I 
Quench the consuming fire in which I burn, 
Wasting away ! 

LISANDER. 

And I will go with thee. 

LIVIA. 

When I once see them safe out of the house, 
I shall breathe freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So do I confide 
In thy just favor, Heaven ! 

LISANDER. 

Let us go. 

JUSTINA. 

Thine is the cause, great God ! turn for my sake, 
And for thine own, mercifully to me ! 



TRANSLATION FROM MOSCHUS. 

Pan loved his neighbor Echo— but that child 

Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr leaping ; 
The Satyr loved with wasting madness wild 

The bright nymph Lyda, — and so three went 
weeping. 
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr ; 

The Satyr, Lyda — and Thus love consumed them. — 
And thus to each — which was a woful matter — 

To bear what they inflicted, justice doom'd them ; 
For inasmuch as each niight hate the lover, 

Each loving, so was hated. — Ye that love not 
Be warn'd — in thought turn this example over, 

That when ye love, the like return ye prove not. 



SCENES 

FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE. 



PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. 

The Lord and the Host of Heaven. 
Enter three Archangels. 

RAPHAEL. 

The sun makes music as of old 

Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, 
On its predestined circle roll'd 

With thunder speed : the Angels even 
Draw strength from gazing on its glance. 

Though none its meaning fathom may :- 
The world's unwither'd countenance 

Is bright as at creation's day. 

GABRIEL. 

And swift and swift, with rapid lightness. 

The adorned Earth spins silently. 
Alternating Elysian brightness 

With deep and dreadful night; the sea 
Foams in broad billows from the deep 

Up to the rocks, and rocks and ocean. 
Onward, with spheres which never sleep, 

Are hurried in eternal motion. 

MICHAEL. 

And tempests in contention roar 
From land to sea, from sea to land ; 

And, raging, weave a chain of power, 
Which girds the earth, as with a band. 



A flashing desolation there. 

Flames before the thunder's way ; 

But thy servants, Lord ! revere 
The gentle changes of thy day. 

CHORUS OF THE THREE. 

The Angels draw strength from thy glance. 
Though no one comprehend thee may ; — 

Thy world's unwither'd countenance 
Is bright as on creation's day.* 

Enter Mephistopheles. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

As thou, O Lord ! once more art kind enough 

To interest thyself in our afl&irs — 

And ask, " How goes it with you there below?" 

And as indulgently at other times 

Thou tookest not my visits in ill part, 

Thou seest me here once more among thy household. 

Though I should scandalize this company, 

You will excuse me if I do not talk 

In the high style which they think fashionable ; 

My pathos would certainly make you laugh too. 

Had you not long since given over laughing. 

Nothing know I to say of suns, and worlds ; 

I observe only how men plague themselves ; — 

The little god o' the world keeps the same stamp, 

As wonderful as on creation's day : — 

A little better would he live, hadst thou 

Not given him a glimpse of heaven's hght 

Which he calls reason, and employs it only 

To live more beastlily than any beast. 

With reverence to your Lordship be it spoken, 

He 's like one of those long-legg'd grasshoppers. 

Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever 



* RAPHAEL. 

The sun sounds, according to ancient custom. 

In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres. 

And its forewritten circle 

Fulfils with a step of thunder. 

Its countenance gives the Angels strength, 

Though no one can fathom it, 

The incredible high works 

Are excellent as at the first day. 

GABRIEL. 

And swift, and inconceivably swift 

The adornment of earth winds itself round, 

And exchanges Paradise-clearness 

With deep dreadful night. 

The sea foams in broad waves 

From its deep bottom, up to the rocks. 

And rocks and sea are torn on together 

In the eternal swift course of the spheres. 

MICHAEL. 

And storms roar in emulation 
From sea to land, from land to sea, 
And make, raging, a chain 
Of deepest operation round about. 
There fiames a flashing destruction 
Before the path of the thunderbolt. 
But thy servants, Lord, revere 
The gentle alternations of thy day. 

CHORUS. 

Thy countenance gives the Angels strength, 

Though none can comprehend thee : 

And all thy lofty works 

Are excellent as at the first day. 
Such is a literal translation of this astonishing Chorus:' 
it is impossible to represent in another language the melody 
of the versification ; even the volatile strength and deli- 
cacy of the ideas escape in the crucible of translation, 
and the reader is surprised to find a caput mortuum.— 
Author's JVote. 

508 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



261 



The same old song i'the grass. There let him lie, 
Burying his nose in every heap of dung. 

THE LORD. 

Have you no more to say ? Do you come here 
Always to scold, and cavil, and complain? 
Seems nothing ever right to you on earth ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

No, Lord ! I find all there, as ever, bad at best. 
Even I am sorry for man's days of sorrow ; 
I could myself almost give up the pleasure 
Of plaguing the poor things. 

THE LORD. 

Knowest thou Faust ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

The Doctor ? 

THE LORD. 

Ay ; my servant Faust ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In truth 
He serves you in a fashion quite his own ; 
And the fool's meat and drink are not of earth. 
His aspirations bear him on so far 
,-That he is half aware of his own folly, 
For he demands from Heaven its fairest star, 
And from the earth the highest joy it bears : 
Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain 
To calm the deep emotions of his breast. 

THE LORD. 

Though he now serves me in a cloud of error, 
I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. 
When trees look green, full well the gardener knows 
That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What will you bet ? — now [ am sure of winning • 
Only, observe you give me full permission 
To lead him softly on my path. 

THE LORD. 

As long 
As he shall live upon the earth, so long 
Is nothing unto thee forbidden — Man 
Must err till he has ceased to struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

' Thanks. 

And that is all I ask ; for willingly 
I never make acquaintance with the dead. 
The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me ; 
And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. 
For I am like a cat — I like to play 
A little with the mouse before I eat it 

THE LORD. 

Well, well! it is permitted thee. Draw thou 
His spirit from its springs ; a? thou find'st power, 
Seize him and lead him on thy downward path; 
And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee 
That a good man, even in his darkest longings, 
Is well aware of the right way. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Well and good. 
I am not in much doubt about my bet; 
And if I lose, then 'tis your turn to crow : 
Enjoy your triumph then with a full breast. 
Ay ! dusj shall he devour, and that with pleasure, 
Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. 

THE LORD. 

Pray come here when it suits you; for I never 
Had much dislike for people of yqur sort. 



And, among all the Spirits who rebell'd. 
The knave was ever the least tedious to me. 
The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 
He seeks unlDroken quiet ; therefore I 
Have given him the Devil for a companion. 
Who may provoke him to some sort of work, 
And must create for ever.— But ye, pure 
Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty ;— 
Not that which ever operates and lives 
Clasp you within the limits of its love ; 
And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts 
The floating phantoms of its loveliness. 

[Heaven closes ; the Archangels exeunt. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

From time to time I visit the old fellow. 

And I take care to keep on good terms with him. 

Civil enough is this same God Almighty, 

To talk so freely with the Devil himself. 



MAY-DAY NIGHT. 

Scene — The Hartz Mountain, a desolate Country. 

Faust, Mephistopheles. 

mephistopheles. 
Would you not like a broomstick ? As for me, 
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride ; 
For we are still far from the appointed place. 

FAUST. 

This knotted staff is help enough for me. 

Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good 

Is there in making short a pleasant way ? 

To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, 

And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs 

Precipitate themselves in waterfalls. 

Is the true sport that seasons such a path. 

Already Spring kindles the birchen spray. 

And the hoar pines already feel her breath : 

Shall she not work also within our limbs ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing of such an influence do I feel : 

My body is all wintry, and I wish 

The flowers upon our path were frost and snow 

But see, how melancholy rises now, 

Dimly uplifting her belated beam, 

The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, 

And gives so bad a light, that every step 

One stumbles 'gainst some crag. With your permission 

I '11 call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid ; 

I see one yonder burning jollily. 

Halloo, my friend ! may I request that you 

Would favor us with your bright company? 

Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? 

Pray be so good as light us up this way. 

IGNIS-FATUUS. 

With reverence be it spoken, I will try 
To overcome the lightness of my nature : 
Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ha ! ha ! your worship thinks you have to deal 
With men. Go straight on, in the Devil's name. 
Or I shall puff your flickering life out. 



IGNIS-FATUUS. 



Well. 



I see you are the master of the house ; 
I will accommodate myself to you. 

509 



262 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Only consider, that to-night this mountain 

Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-Lanlern 

Shows you his way, though you should miss your own, 

You ought not to be too exact with him. 



JFAUST, MEPHiSTOPHELES, and iGNis-FATUUS, 171 alter- 
note Chorus. 

The limits of the sphere of dream, 

The bounds of true and false, are past. 

Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, 
Lead us onward, far and fast, 
To the wide, the desert waste. 

But see, how swift advance and shift, 

Trees behind trees, row by row, — 
How clift by clift, rocks bend and lift 

Their frowning foreheads as we go. 

The giant-snouted crags, ho ! ho ! 

How they snort, and how they blow ! 

Through the mossy sods and stones 
Stream and streamlet hurry down, 
A rushing throng ! A sound of song 
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown ! 
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
Of this bright day, sent down to say 
That Paradise on Earth is known, 
Resound around, beneath, above. 
All we hope and all we love 
Finds a voice in this blithe strain, 
Which wakens hill and wood and rill, 
1 And vibrates far o'er field and vale^ 

And which Echo, like the tale 
Of old times, repeats again. 

Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! near, nearer now 
The sound of song, the rushing throng! 
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay. 
All awake as if 'twere day ? 

See, with long legs and belly wide, 

A salamander in the brake ! 

Every root is like a snake, 

And along the loose hill-side, 

With strange contortions through the night. 

Curls, to seize or to affright; 

And, animated, strong, and many, 

They dart forth polypus-antennae. 

To blister with their poison spume 

The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom 

The many-color'd mice, that thread 

The dewy turf beneath our tread. 

In troops each other's motions cross. 

Through the iieath and through the moss ; 

And, in legions intertangled, 

The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng. 

Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 

Tell me, shall we go or stay ? 
Shall we onward? Come along! 
Every thing around is swept 
Forward, onward, far away ! 
Trees and masses intercept 
The sight, and wisps on every side 
Are pufTd up and multiplied. 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain 
This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
One may observe with wonder from this point. 
How Mammon glows among the mountains. 

FAUST. 

Ay- 

And strangely through the solid depth below 
A melancholy light, like the red dawn. 
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss 
Of mountains, lightening hitherward : there rise 
Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by ; 
Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air. 
Or the illumined dust of golden flowers ; 
And now it glides like tender colors spreading ; 
And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth ; 
And now it winds, one torrent of broad light. 
Through the far valley with a hundred veins ; 
And now once more within that narrow corner 
Masses itself into intensive splendor. 
And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, 
Like golden sand scatter'd upon the darkness ; 
The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains 
That hems us in, are kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Rare, in faith ! 
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate 
His palace for this festival — it is 
A pleasure which you had not known before. 
I spy the boisterous guests already. 

FAUST. 

How 
The children of the wind rage in the air ! 
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. ^ 

Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 
Beware ! for if with them thou warrest 
In their fierce flight towards the wilderness. 
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag 
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 

A cloud thickens the night. 
Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest! 

The owls fly out in strange afliight ; 
The columns of the evergreen palaces 
Are split and shatter'd ; 
The roots creak, and stretch, and groan ; 
And ruinously overthrown. 
The trunks are crush'd and shatter'd 
By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress. 
Over each other crack and crash they all, 
In terrible and intertangled fall ; 
And through the ruins of the shaken mountain 

The airs hiss and howl — 
It is not the voice of the fountain. 
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not hear ? 

Strange accents are ringing 
Aloft, afar, anear ; 

The witches are singing ! 
The torrent of a raging wizard song 
Streams the whole mountain along. 

CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

The stubble is yellow, the corn is green. 
Now to the brocken the witches go ; 
The mighty multitude here may be seen 
Gathering, wizard and witch, below. 
510 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



263 



Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air ; 
Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 
'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done ? 
Tell it who dare ! tell it who dare ! 

A VOICE. 

Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, 
Old Baubo rideth alone, 

CHORUS. 

Honor her, to whom honor is due, 

Old mother Baubo, honor to you ! 

An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, 

Is worthy of glory, and w orthy of honor ! 

The legion of witches is coming behind, 

Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind — 

A VOICE. 

Which way comest thou ? 

A VOICE. 

Over Ilsenstein. 
The owl was awake in the white moonshine : 
I saw her at rest in her downy nest, 
And she stared at me with her broad, bright eye. 

VOICES. 

And you may now as well take your course on to Hell, 
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. 

A VOICE. 

She dropp'd poison upon me as I past. 
Here are the wounds 

CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

Come away ! come along ! 
The way is wide, the way is long. 
But what is that for a Bedlam throng ? 
Stick wdth the prong, and scratch with the broom, 
The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, 
And the mother is clapping her hands. 

SEMI-CHORUS OF WIZARDS 1. 

We glide in 
Like snails when the women are all away ,- 
And from a house once given over to sin 
Woman has a thousand steps to stray. 

SEMI-CHORUS II. 

A thousand steps must a woman take, 
Where a man but a single spring will make. 

VOICES ABOVE. 

Come wdth us, come with us, from Felunsee. 

VOICES BELOW. 

With what joy would we fly through the upper sky! 
We are wash'd, we are 'nointed, stark naked are we; 
But our toil and our pain are for ever in vain. 

BOTH CHORUSSES. 

The wdnd is still, the stars are fled. 
The melancholy moon is dead ; 
The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
Drizzle, whistling through the dark. 
Come away ! 

VOICES BELOW. 

Stay, oh stay ! 

VOICES ABOVE. 

Out of the crannies of the rocks 
Who calls ? 

VOICES BELOW. 

Oh, let me join your flocks! 
I three hundred years have striven 
To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven, — 
And still in vain. Oh, might I be 
With company akin to me ! 



BOTH CHORUSSES. 

Some on a ram and some on a prong. 

On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along ; 

Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night 

A HALF-WITCH BELOW. 

I have been tripping this many an hour : 
Are the others already so far before ? 
No quiet at home, and no peace abroad ! 
And less me thinks is found by the road. 

CHORUS OF WITCHES. 

Come onward away ! aroint thee, aroint ! 

A witch to be strong must anoint — anoint — 

Then every trough will be boat enough ; 

With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky — 

Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly ? 

BOTH CHORUSSES. 

We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground ; 
Witch-legions thicken around and around : 
Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. 

[They descend 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling ; 
What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling ; 
What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning, 
As Heaven and Earth were overturning. 
There is a true witch element about us ! 
Take hold on me, or we shall be divided : — 
Where are you ? 

FAUST {fr&m a distance). 
Here! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What? 
I mnst exert my authority in the house ! 
Place for young Voland — Pray make way, good people. 
Take hold on me. Doctor, and with one step 
Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd : 
They are too mad for people of my sort. 
Just there shines a peculiar kind of light — 
Something attracts me in those bushes. Come 
This way : we shall slip down there in a minute. 

FAUST. 

Spirit of Contradiction ! Well, lead on — 
"Twere a wise feat indeed to wander out 
Into the brocken upon May-day night. 
And then to isolate oneself in scorn. 
Disgusted with the humors of the time. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

See yonder, round a many-color'd flame 
A merry club is huddled altogether : 
Even with such little people as sit there. 
One would not be alone. 

FAUST. 

Would that I were 
Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke. 
Where the blind million rush impetuously 
To meet the evil ones ; there might I solve 
Many a riddle that torments me ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Yet 
Many a riddle there is tied anew 
Inextricably. Let the great world rage ! 
We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings. 
'Tis an old custom. Men have ever built 
Their own small world in the great world of all. 
I see young witches naked there, and old ones 
Wisely attired with greater decency. 
511 



264 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Be guided now by me, and you shall buy 
A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. 
I hear them tune their instruments — one must 
Get used to this damn'd scraping. Come, I 'U lead you 
Among them ; and what there you do and see, 
As a fresh compact 'twixt us two shall be. 
How say you now ? this space is wide enough — 
Look forth, you cannot see the end of it — 
A hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they 
Who throng around them seem innumerable ; 
Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love. 
And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, 
What is there better in the world than this ? 

FAUST. 

In introducing us, do you assume 
The character of wizard or of devil ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In truth, I generally go about 

In strict incognito ; and yet one likes 

To wear one's orders upon gala-days. 

I have no ribbon at my knee ; but here 

At home, the cloven foot is honorable. 

See you that snail there ? — she comes creeping up, 

And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something. 

I could not, if I would, mask myself here. 

Come now, we '11 go about from fire to fire : 

I '11 be the pimp, and you shall be the lover. 

[To some Old Women, who are sitting round a 
heap of glimmering coals. 
Old gentlewomen, what do you do out here ? 
You ought to be with the young rioters 
Right in the thickest of the revelry — 
But every one is best content at home. 

GENERAL. 

Who dare confide in right or a just claim ? 

So much as I had done for them ! and now — 
With women and the people 'tis the same. 
Youth will stand foremost ever, — age may go 
To the dark grave unhonor'd. 

MINISTER. 

Now-a-days 
People assert their rights : they go too far ; 

But as for me, the good old times I praise ; 
Then we were all in all, 'twas something worth 

One's while to be in place and wear a star ; 
That was indeed the golden age on earth. 

PARVENU.* 

We too are active, and we did and do 
What we ought not, perhaps ; and yet we now 
Will seize, whilst all things are whirl 'd round and round, 
A spoke of Fortune's wheel, and keep our ground. 

AUTHOR. 

Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense 
And ponderous volume ? 'tis impertinence 
To write what none will read, therefore will I 
To please the young and thoughtless people try. 
MEPHISTOPHELES (whoat once appears to have grown 

very old). 
I find the people ripe for the last day. 
Since I last came up to the wizard mountain ; 
And as my little cask runs turbid now, 
So is the world drain'd to the dregs. 



PEDLAR WITCH. 



Look here. 



* A sort of fundholder. 



Gentlemen ; do not hurry on so fast, 

And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. 

have a pack full of the choicest wares 
Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle 
Is nothing like what may be found on earth ; 
Nothing that in a moment will make rich 
Men and the world with fine malicious mischief- 
There is no dagger drunk with blood ; no bowl 
From which consuming poison may be drain'd 
By innocent and healthy lips ; no jewel, 
The price of an abandon'd maiden's shame ; 
No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose. 
Or stabs the wearer's enemy in the back; 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Gossip, you know little of these times. 
What has been, has been ; what is done, is past. 
They shape themselves into the innovations 
They breed, and innovation drags us with it. 
The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us 
You think to impel, and are yourself impell'd. 



Who is that yonder ? 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Mark her well. 



It is 



Lilith. 



FAUST. 

Who? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Lilith, the first wife of Adam. 
Beware of her fair hair, for she excels 
All women in the magic of her locks ; 
And when she winds them round a young man's neck, 
She will not ever set him free again. 

FAUST. 

There sit a girl and an old woman — they 
Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

There is no rest to-night for any one : 
When one dance ends, another is begun ; 
Come, let us to it ; we shall have rare fun. 

[Faust dances and sings with a Girl, and Me 
PHISTOPHELES with an Old Woman. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

What is this cursed multitude about ? 

Have we not long since proved to demonstration 

That ghosts m.ove not on ordinary feet ? 

But these are dancing just like men and women. 

THE GIRL. 

What does he want then at our ball ? 

FAUST. 

Oh' he 
Is far above us all in his conceit : 
Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment ; 
And any step which in our dance we tread. 
If it be left out of his reckoning. 
Is not to be consider'd as a step. 
There are few things that scandalize him not : 
And when you whirl round in the circle now, 
As he went round the wheel in his old mill. 
He says that you go wrong in all respects, 
Especially if you congratulate him 
Upon the strength of the resemblance. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

Fly! 
Vanish ! Unheard-of impudence ! What, still there ! 
512 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



265 



In this enlighten'd age too, since you have been 
Proved not to exist ! — But this infernal brood 
Will hear no reason and endure no rule. 
Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted ? 
How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish 
Of superstition, and the world will not 
Come clean with all my pains ! — it is a case 
Unheard of! 

THE GIRL. 

Then leave off teasing us so. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

I tell you, spirits, to your faces now, 
That I should not regret this despotism 
Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. 
To-night I shall make poor work of it ; 
Yet I will take a round with you, and hope 
Before my last step in the living dance 
To beat the poet and the devil together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

At last he will sit down in some foul puddle ! 
That is his way of solacing himself; 
Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, 
Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. 

\To Faust, who has seceded from the dance. 
Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, 
Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance ? 

FAUST. 

A red mouse in the middle of her singing 
Sprang from her mouth. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

That was all right, my friend ; 
Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. 
Do not disturb your hour of happiness 
With close consideration of such trifles. 



I Then saw I- 



MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What? 



FAUST. 

Seest thou not a pale 
Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? 
She drags herself now forward with slow steps. 
And seems as if she moved with shackled feet : 
I I cannot overcome the thought that she 
Is like poor Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Let it be — pass on — 
No good can come of it — it is not well 
To meet it — it is an enchanted phantom, 
{ A lifeless idol ; with its numbing look, 
I It freezes up the blood of man ; and they 
Who meet its ghastly stare are turn'd to stone, 
Like those who saw Medusa. 

FAUST. 

Oh, too true! 
Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! 
That is the heart which Margaret yielded to 
Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoy'd ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

It is all magic, poor deluded fool ! 

She looks to every one like his first love. 

FAUST. 

Oh, what delight ! what woe ! I cannot turn 
My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. 
How strangely does a single blood-red line, 
3P 



Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, 
Adorn her lovely neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ay, she can carry 
Her head under her arm upon occasion ; 
Perseus has cut it oflf for her. These pleasures 
End in delusion. — Gain this rising ground, 
It is as airy here as in a [ ] 

And if I am not mightily deceived, 
I see a theatre — What may this mean ? 

ATTENDANT. 

Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for 'tis 
The custom now to represent that number. 
'Tis written by a Dilettante, and 
The actors who perform are Dilettanti ; 
Excuse me, gentlemen ; but I must vanish, 
I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. 



FRAGMENTS. 



GINEVRA.* 

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one 
Who staggers forth into the air and sun 
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, 
Bewilder'd, and incapable, and ever 
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain 
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 
Of objects and of persons pass'd like things 
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, 
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went ; 
The vows to which her lips had sworn assent 
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din. 
Deafening the lost intelligence within. 

And so she moved under the bridal veil, 
Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale. 
And deepen'd the faint crimson of her mouth. 
And darken'd her dark locks as moonlight doth,— 
And of the gold and jewels glittering there 
She scarce felt conscious, — but the weary glare 
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light. 
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight. 
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 
Was less heavenly fair — her face was bow'd. 
And as she pass'd, the diamonds in her hair 
Were mirror'd in the polish'd marble stair 
Which led from the cathedral to the street ; 
And ever as she went, her light fair feet 
Erased these images. 

The bride-maidens who round her thronging came, 
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame, 
Envying the unenviable ; and others 
Making the joy which should have been another's 
Their own by gentle sympathy ; and some 
Sighing to think of an unhappy home : 
Some few admiring what can ever lure 
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure 
Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat ; a thing 
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining. 



* This fragment is part of a poem which Mr. Shelley in- 
tended to write, founded on a story to be found in the first 
volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Fiorentino." 
513 



266 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But they are all dispersed — and, lo ! she stands 

Looking in idle grief on her white hands, 

Alone within the garden now her own ; 

And through the sunny air, with jangling tone, 

The music of the merry marriage-bells, 

Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells ; — 

Absorb'd like one within a dream who dreams 

That he is dreaming, until slumber seems 

A mockery of itself — when suddenly 

Antonio stood before her, pale as she. 

With agony, with sorrow, and with pride, 

He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride. 

And said — " Is this thy faith ? " and then as one 

Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun 

With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise 

And look upon his day of life with eyes 

Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, 

Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore 

To shriek or faint, and check'd the stifling blood 

Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued 

Said — " Friend, if earthly violence or ill, 

Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will 

Of parents, chande, or custom, time or change, 

Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge, 

Or wilder'd looks, or words, or evil speech, 

With all their stings [ ] can impeach 

Our love, — we love not : — if the grave which hides 

The victim from the tyrajit, and divides 

The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart 

Imperious inquisition to the heart 

That is another's, could dissever ours. 

We love not." — " What, do not the silent hours 

Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal-bed ? 

Is not that ring" a pledge, he would have said. 

Of broken vows, but she with patient look 

The golden circle from her finger took. 

And said — " Accept this token of my faith. 

The pledge of vows to be absolved by death ; 

And I am dead, or shall be soon — my knell 

Will mix its music with that merry bell : 

Does it not sound as if they sweetly said, 

' We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed V 

The flowers upon my bridal-chamber strewn 

Will serve unfaded for my bier — so soon 

That even the dying violet will not die 

Before Ginevra." The strong phantasy 

Had made her accents weaker and more weak. 

And quench'd the crimson life upon her cheek. 

And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere 

Round her, which chill'd the burning noon with fear 

Making her but an image of the thought, 

Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought 

News of the terrors of the coming time. 

Like an accuser branded with the crime 

He would have cast on a beloved friend, 

Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end 

The pale betrayer — he then with vain repentance 

Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence — 

Antonio stood and would have spoken, when 

The compound voice of women and of men 

Was heard approaching ; he retired, while she 

Was led amid the admiring company 

Back to the palace, — and her maidens soon 

Changed her attire for the afternoon, 

And left her at her own request to keep 

An hour of quiet and rest .—like one asleep 



With open eyes and folded hands she lay. 
Pale in the light of the declining day. 

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set. 
And in the lighted hall the guests are met ; 
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light 
Of love, and admiration, and delight 
Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes. 
Kindling a momentary Paradise. 
This crowd is safer than the silent wood, 
Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude , 
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
Tempers the deep emotions of the time 
To spirits cradled in a sunny clime : — 
How many meet, who never yet have met. 
To part too soon, but never to forget. 
How many saw the beauty, power and wit 
Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet ; 
But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn. 
As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn. 
And unprophetic of the coming hours, 
The matin winds from the expanded flowers 
Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken 
The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken 
From every living heart which it possesses, 
Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, 
As if the future and the past were all 
Treasured i' the instant ; — ^so Gherardi's hall 
Laugh'd in the mirth of its lord's festival. 
Till some one ask'd — " Where is the Bride ?" And then 
A bride's-maid went, — and ere she came again 
A silence fell upon the guests — a pause 
Of expectation, as when beauty awes 
All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld : 
Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quell'd ;— 
For whispers pass'd from mouth to ear which drew 
The color from the hearer's cheeks, and flew 
Louder and swifter round the company ; 
And then Gherardi enter'd with an eye 
Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd 
Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud. 

They found Ginevra dead ! if it be death. 
To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath, 
With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stifljj and white, 
And open eyes, whose fix'd and glassy light 
Mock'd at the speculation they had own'd. 
If it be death, when there is felt around 
A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare. 
And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair 
From the scalp to the ankles, as it were 
Corruption from the spirit passing forth. 
And giving all it shrouded to the earth. 
And leaving as swift lightning in its flight 
Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our night 
Of thought we know thus much of death, — no more 
Than the unborn dream of our life before 
Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore. 
The marriage-feast and its solemnity 
Was turn'd to funeral pomp — the company 
With heavy hearts and looks, broke up ; nor they 
Who loved the dead went weeping on their way 
Alone, but sorrow mix'd with sad surprise 
Loosen'd the springs of pity in all eyes, 
On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain. 
Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again. 
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267 



The lamps which, half-extinguish'd in their haste, 
Gleam'd few and faint o'er the abandon'd feast, 
Show'd as it were within the vaulted room 
A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom 
Had pass'd out of men's minds into the air. 
Some few yet stood around Gherardi there, 
Friends and relations of the dead, — and he, 
A loveless man, accepted torpidly 
The consolation that he wanted not, — 
Awe in the place of grief within him wrought. 
Their whispers made the solemn silence seem 
More still — some wept, [ ] 

Some melted into tears without a sob, 
And some with hearts that might be heard to throb 
Leant on the ^dble, and at intervals 
Shudder'd to hear through the deserted halls 
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which cam6 
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame 
Of every torch and taper as it swept 
From out the chamber where the women kept ; — 
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold 
Of pleasures now departed ; then was knoU'd 
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived, 
And finding death their penitent had shrived, 
Return'd like ravens from a corpse whereon 
A vulture has just feasted to the bone. 
And then the mourning women came. — 
* ****** 

THE DIRGE. 

Old winter was gone 
In his weakness back to the mountains hoar, 

And the spring came down 
From the planet that hovers upon the shore 
Where the sea of sunlight encroaches 
On the limits of wintry night ; 
If the land, and the air, and the sea 
Rejoice not when spring approaches. 
We did not rejoice in thee, 
Ginevra ! 
She is still, she is cold 

On the bridal couch. 
One step to the white death-bed. 

And one to the bier. 
And one to the charnel — and one, O where ? 

The dark arrow fled 

In the noon. 
Ere the sun through Heaven once more has roU'd, 
The rats in her heart 
Will have made their nest, 
And the worms be alive in her golden hair ; 
While the spirit that guides the sun. 
Sits throned in his flaming chair. 

She shall sleep. 

***** 

Pisa, 1821. 



CHARLES THE FIRST. 

A FRAGMENT. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

T%e Pageant to [celebrate] the arrived of the Queen. 

A PURSUIVANT. 

PLACE, for the Marshal of the Masque ! 



FIRST SPEAKER. 

What thinkest thou of this quaint masque, which turns 
Like morning from the shadow of the night. 
The night to day, and London to a place 
Of peace and joy ? 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

And Hell to Heaven. 
Eight years are gone. 

And they seem hours, since in this populous street 
I trod on grass made green by summer's rain. 
For the red plague kept state within that palace 
Where now reigns vanity — in nine years more 
The roots will be refresh'd with civil blood ; 
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven 
That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's cry. 
The patience of the great Avenger's ear. 

THIRD SPEAKER (o, yOUth), 

Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see, 

Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden 

By God or man; — 'tis like the bright procession 

Of skiey visions in a solemn dream 

From which men wake as from a paradise. 

And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life- 

If God be good, wherefore should this be evil ? 

And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw 

Unseasonable poison from the flowers 

Which bloom so rarely in this barren world ? 

O, kill these bitter thoughts, which make the present 

Dark as the future ! — 

********* 

When avarice and tyranny, vigilant fear, 
And open-eyed conspiracy lie sleeping. 
As on Hell's threshold ; and all gentle thoughts 
Waken to worship him who giveth joys 
With his own gift. 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

How young art thou in this old age of time ! 

How green in this gray world ! Canst thou not think 

Of change in that low scene, in which thou art 

Not a spectator but an actor ? [ ] 

The day that dawns in fire will die in storms, 

Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done; 

Before the whirlwind wakes, I shall have found 

My inn of lasting rest, but thou must still 

Be journeying on in this inclement air. 



FIRST SPEAKER. 



Is the Archbishop. 



That 



SECOND SPEAKER. 

Rather say the Pope. 
London will be soon his Rome : he walks 
As if he trod upon the heads of men. 
He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold ; — 
Beside him moves the Babylonian woman 
Invisibly, and vdth her as with his shadow. 
Mitred adulterer ! he is join'd in sin. 
Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge 

ANOTHER CITIZEN {lifting up his cyes). 
Good Lord ! rain it down upon him. [ ] 
Amid her ladies walks the papist queen, 
As if her nice feet scorn'd our English earth. 
There 's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke, 
Lord Essex, and Lord-Keeper Coventry, 
And others who make base their English breed 
By vile participation of their honors 
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SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



W^ith papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates. 
When lawyers mask, 'tis time for honest men 
To strip the visor from their purposes. 
********* 

FOURTH SPEAKER (a pursuivant). 
Give place, give place ! — 
You torch-bearers, advance to the great gate, 
And then attend the Marshal of the Masque 
Into the Royal presence. 

FIFTH SPEAKER (a law Student). 

What thinkest thou 
Of this quaint show of ours, my aged friend? 

FIRST SPEAKER. 

I will not think but that our country's wounds 
May yet be heal'd — The king is just and gracious, 
Though wicked counsels now pervert his will : 
These once cast off — 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

As adders cast their skins 
And keep their venom, so kings often change ; 
Councils and counsellors hang on one another. 
Hiding the lothesome [ ] 

Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. 

THIRD SPEAKER. 

O, still those dissonant thoughts — List ! loud music 
Grows on the enchanted air! And see, the torches 
Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided 
Like waves before an Admiral's prow. 
********* 



ANOTHER SPEAKER. 



Give place — 



To the Marshal of the Masque! 

THIRD SPEAKER. 

How glorious ! See those thronging chariots 
Rolling like painted clouds before the wind 

Some are 
Like curved shells dyed by the azure depths 
Of Indian seas ; some like the new-born moon; 
And some like cars in which the Romans climb'd 
(Canopied by Victory's eagle wings outspread) 
The Capitolian — See how gloriously 
The mettled horses in the torchlight stir 
Their gallant riders, while they check their pride. 
Like shapes of some diviner element ! 

SECOND SPEAKER. 

Ay, there they are — 
Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees. 
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, 
On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows. 
Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, 
Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. 
These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, 
Who toil not, neither do they spin, — unless 
It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. 
Here is the surfeit which to them who earn 
The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves 
The tithe that will support them till they crawl 
Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health 
FoUow'd by grim disease, glory by shame. 
Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want. 
And England's sin by England's punishment. 
And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, 
Lo, giving substance to my words, behold 
At once the sign and the thing signified — 
A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts. 
Horsed upon stumbling shapes, carted with dung, 



Dragg'd for a day from cellars and low cabins 
And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral 
Of this presentiment, and bring up the rear 
Of painted pomp with misery ! 

SPEAKER. 

'Tis but 

The anti-masque, and serves as discords do 
In sweetest music. Who would love May flowers 
If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw ; 
Or day unchanged by night ; or joy itself 
Without the touch of sorrow ? 



SCENE II. 

A Chamber in Whitehall. 

Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Wentworth, and 
Archy. 

KING. 

Thanks, gentlemen, I heartily accept 

This token of your service : your gay masque 

Was performed gallantly. 

auEEN. 

And, gentlemen, 
Call your poor Queen your de btor. Your quaint pageant 
Rose on me like the figures of past years, 
Treading their still path back to infancy. 
More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer 
The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept 
To think I was in Paris, where these shows 
Are well devised — such as I was ere yet 
My young heart shared with [ J the task, 

The careful weight of this great monarchy. 
There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure 
And that which it regards, no clamor lifts 
Its proud interposition. 
* * * * * 



My lord of Canterbury. 

ARCHY. 

The fool is here. 
laud. 
I crave permission of your Majesty ' 

To order that this insolent fellow be 
Chastised : he mocks the sacred character, 
Scoffs at the stake, and — 

KING. 

What, my Archy ! 
He mocks and mimics all he.sees and hears, 
Yet with a quaint and graceful license — Prithee 
For this once do not as Prynne would, were he 
Primate of England. 

He lives in his own world ; and, like a parrot, 
Hung in his gilded prison from the window 
Of a queen's bower over the public way, 
Blasphemes with a bird's mind : — his words, like arrows 
Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit. 
Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy. 

QUEEN. 

Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence 

Ten minutes in, the rain: be it your penance 

To bring news how the world goes there. Poor Archy! 

He weaves about himself a world of mirth 

Out of this wreck of ours. 

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269 



LAUD. 

I take with patience, as my master did, 
All scoJ9& permitted from above. 

KING. 

My lord, 
Pray overlook these papers. Archy's words 
Had wings, but these have talons. 

auEEN. 

And the lion 
That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, 
I see the new-born courage in your eye 
Arm'd to strike dead the spirit of the time. 
***** 

Do thou persist : for, faint but in resolve. 

And it were better thou had still remain'd 

The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like ctirs 

The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer ! 

And opportunity, that empty wolf, 

Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions 

Even to the disposition of thy purpose. 

And be that temper'd as the Ebro's steel : 

And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, 

Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace. 

And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss. 

As when she keeps the company of rebels, 

Who think that she is fear. This do, lest we 

Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle 

In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream 

Out of our worshipp'd state. 



LAUD. 

* * And if this suffice not. 

Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst 

They may lick up that scum of schismatics. 

I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring 

What we possess, still prate of Christian peace, 

As if those dreadful messengers of wrath. 

Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, 

Should be let loose against innocent sleep 

Of templed cities and the smiling fields. 

For some poor argument of policy 

Which touches our own profit or our pride. 

Where indeed it were Christian charity 

To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand : 

And when our great Redeemer, when our God 

Is scorn'd in his immediate ministers, 

They talk of peace : 

Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotlahd now. 



auEEN. 
My beloved lord. 

Have you not noted that the fool of late 
Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words 
Sound like the echoes of our saddest fears ? 
What can it mean ? I should be loth to think 
Some iactious slave had tutor'd him. 

KING. 

It partly is, 
That our minds piece the vacant intervals 
Of his wild words with their own fashioning ; 
As in the imagery of summer clouds, 
Or coals in the winter fire, idlers find 
The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts : 
And partly, that the terrors of the time 
Are sown by wandering Rumor in all spirits j 



And in the lightest and the least, may best 
Be seen the current of the coming wind. 

QUEEN. 

Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts i 

Come, I will sing to you ; let us go try 

These airs from Italy, — and you shall see 

A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, 

Stamp'd on the heart by never-erring love ; 

Liker than any Vandyke ever made, 

A pattern to the unborn age of thee. 

Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy 

A thousand times, and now should weep for -sorrow, 

Did I not think that after we were dead 

Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that 

The cares we waste upon our heavy crown 

Would make it light and glorious as a wreath 

Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. 



Dear Henrietta ! 



SCENE III. 
Hampden, Pym, Cromwell, and the younger Vane. 

HAMPDEN. 

England, farewell ! thou, who hast been my cradle, 

Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave ! 

I held what I inherited in thee, 

As pawn for that inheritance of freedom 

Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile : — 

How can I call thee England, or my country ? 

Does the wind hold ? 

VANE. 

The vanes sit steady 
Upon the Abbey towers. The silver lightnings 
Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke. 
Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. 
Mark too that flock of fleecy- winged clouds 
Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. 

HAMPDEN. 

Hail, fleet herald 
Of tempest ! that wild pilot who shall guide 
Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee, 
Beyond the shot of tyranny ! And thou, 
Fair^star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, 
Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm. 
Bright as the path to a beloved home, 
O light us to the isles of th' evening land ! 
Like floating Ed ens, cradled in the glimmer 
Of sunset, through the distant mist of years 
Tinged by departing Hope, they gleam. Lone regions. 
Where power's poor dupes and victims, yet have 

never 
Propitiated the savage fear of kings 
With purest blood of noblest hearts ; whose dew 
Is yet unstain'd with tears of those who wake 
To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns ^ 
Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo 
Of formal blasphemies ; nor impious rites 
Wrest man's free worship from the God who loves. 
Towards the worm who envies us his love ; 
Receive thou young [ ] of Paradise, 

These exiles from the old and sinful world ! 
This glorious clime, this firmament whose lights 
Dart mitigated influence through the veil 
Of pale blue atmosphere ; whose tears keep green 
517 



270 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth ; 
This vaporous horizon, whose dim round 
Is bastion'd by the circumfluous sea, 
Repelling invasion from the sacred towers, 
Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, 
A low dark roof, a damp and narrow vault : 
The mighty universe becomes a cell 
Too narrow for the soul that owns no master. 

While the lotheliest spot 
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest 
Of cradled peace built on the mountain-tops, 
To which the eagle-spirits of the free, 
Which range through heaven and earth, and 

the storm 
Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth. 
Return to brood over the [ ] thoughts 

That cannot die, and may not be repelled. 



FRAGMENTS 

PROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 

He came like a dream in the dawn of life, 

He fled like a shadow before its noon ; 
He is gone, and my peace is tum'd to strife. 
And I wander and wane like the weary moon. 
O sweet Echo wake, 
And for my sake 
Make answer the while my heart shall break ! 

But the heart has a music which Echo's lips, 

Though tender and true, yet can answer not ; 
And the shadow that moves in the soul's eclipse 
Can return not the kiss by his now forgot ; 
Sweet lips ! he who hath 
On my desolate path 
Cast the darkness of absence worse than death ! 



INDIAN. 

And if my grief should still be dearer to me 
Than all the pleasure in the world beside. 
Why would you lighten it ? — 

LADY. 

I offer only 
That which I seek, some human S5anpathy 
In this mysterious island. 

THE INDIAN. 

Oh ! my friend, 
My sister, my beloved ! What do I say ? 
My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know whether 
I speak to thee or her. Peace, perturbed heart ! 
I am to thee only as thou to mine, 
The passing wind which heals the brow at noon. 
And may strike cold into the breast at night. 
Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most. 
Or long soothe could it linger. But you said 
You also loved. 

LADY. 

Loved ! Oh, I love. Methinks 
This word of love is fit for all the world. 
And that fpr gentle hearts another name 
Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world 

owns. 
I have loved. 

THE INDIAN. 

And thou lovest not ? if so. 
Young as thou art, thou canst afford to weep. 



Oh ! would that I could claim exemption 

From all the bitterness of that sweet name ! 

I loved, I love, and when I love no more. 

Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair 

To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me. 

The embodied vision of the brightest dream. 

Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ; 

The shadow of his presence made my world 

A paradise. All familiar things he touch'd. 

All common words he spoke, became to me 

Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 

He was as is the sun in his fierce youth. 

As terrible and lovely as a tempest ; 

He came, and went, and left me what I am. 

Alas ! Why must I think how oft we two 

Have sate together near the river springs. 

Under the green pavilion which the willow 

Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain. 

Strewn by the nurslings that linger there. 

Over that islet paved with flowers and moss, 

While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 

snow, 

Shower'd on us, and the dove moum'd in the pine. 
Sad prophetess of sorrows not our own. 



Your breath is like soft music, your words are 
The echoes of a voice which on my heart 
Sleeps like a melody of early days. 
But as you said — 

LADY. 

He was so awful, yet 
So beautiful in mystery and terror. 
Calming me as the lovehness of heaven 
Soothes the unquiet sea : — and yet not so. 
For he seem'd stormy, and would often seem 
A quenchless sun mask'd in portentous clouds ; 
For such his thoughts, and even his actions were; 
But he was not of them, nor they of him. 
But as they hid his splendor from the earth. 
Some said he was a man of blood and peril. 
And steep'd in bitter infamy to the lips. 
More need was there I should be innocent. 
More need that I should be most true and kind, 
And much more need that there should be found Oi, 
To share remorse, and scorn and solitude, 
And all the ills that wait on those who do 
The tasks of ruin in the world of hfe. 
He fled, and I have foUow'd him. 
February, 1822. 



PRINCE ATHANASE, 

A FRAGMENT. 

PART I. 

There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, 
Had grown quite weak and gray before his time ; 
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel 

Which burn'd within him, withering up his prime. 
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. 
Not his the load of any secret crime. 

For naught of ill his heart could understand. 
But pity and wild sorrow for the same ; — 
Not his the thirst for glory or command, 
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271 



Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame ; 
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast, 
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame, 

Had left within his soul their dark unrest : 
Nor what religion fables of the grave 
Fear'd he, — Philosophy's accepted guest. 

For none than he a purer heart could have, 

Or that loved good more for itself alone ; 

Of naught in heaven or earth was he the slave. 

What sorrow deep, unshadowy, and unknown, 
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind ? — 
If with a human sadness he did groan, 

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind ; 
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed ; 
And such a glorious consolation find 

In others' joy, when all their own is dead : 
He loved, and labor'd for his kind in grief, 
And yet, unlike all others, it is said, 

That from such toil he never found relief: 
Although a child of fortune and of power, 
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief. 

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower 
Is love and justice, clothed in which, he sate 
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower, 

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate — 
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse 
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate 

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use 
To blind the world they famish for their pride ; 
Nor did he hold from any man his dues, 

But like a steward in honest dealings tried. 

With those who toil'd and wept, the poor and wise , 

His riches and his cares he did divide. 

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise, 

What he dared do or think, though men might start, 

He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes ; 

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart. 
And to his many friends — all loved him well — 
Whate'er he knew or felt, he would impart. 

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell ; 
If not, he smiled or wept ; and his weak foes 
He neither spurn'd nor hated : though with fell 

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose. 
They past like aimless arrows from his ear — 
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close 

To those or them, or any whom life's sphere 
May comprehend within its wide array. 
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere ? 

He knew not. Though his life, day after day. 
Was failing like an unreplenish'd stream. 
Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, 



Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam 
Piercing the chasms of ever-rising clouds. 
Shone, softly burning ; though his lips did seem 

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods ; 
And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour, 
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes, 

Were driven within him, by some secret power, 
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar, 
Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower 

O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war 

Is levied by the night-contending winds. 

And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear ; — 

Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends 
Which wake and feed on ever-living woe, — 
What was this grief, which ne'er in other minds 

A mirror found, — ^he knew not — none could Imow ; 
But on whoe'er might question him, he turn'd 
The light of his frank eyes, as if to show 

He knew not of the grief within that bum'd. 
But ask'd forbearance with a mournful look; 
Or spoke in words from which none ever leam'd 

The cause of his disquietude ; or shook . 
With spasms of silent passion ; or turn'd pale : 
So that his friends soon rarely undertook 

To stir his secret pain without avail ; — 

For all who knew and loved him then, perceived 

That there was drawn an adamantine veil 

Between his heart and mind, — both unrelieved 
Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. 
Some said that he was mad, others believed 

That memories of an antenatal life 

Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell ; 

And others said that such mysterious grief 

From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell 
On souls like his, which own'd no higher law 
Than love ; love calm, stedfast, invincible 

By mortal fear or supernatural awe ; 

And others, — " 'Tis the shadow of a dream 

Which the veil'd eye of memory never saw, 

" But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream 
Through shatter'd mines and caverns underground 
Rolls, shaking its foundations ; and no beam 

"Of joy may rise, but it is quench'd and drown'd 
In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure. 
Soon its exhausted waters will have found 

" A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, 
O Athanese ! — in one so good and great. 
Evil or tumult cannot long endure." 

So spake they : idly of another's state 
Babbling vain words and fond philosophy ; 
This was their consolation ; such debate 
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Men held with one another ; nor did he, 
Like one who labors with a human woe, 
Decline this talk ; as if its theme might be 

Another, not himself, he to and fro 

Question'd and canvass'd it with subtlest wit, 

And none but those who loved him best could know 

That which he knew not, how it gall'd and bit 
His weary mind, this converse vain and cold ; 
For like an eyeless night-mare, grief did sit 

Upon his being ; a snake which fold by fold 
Press'd out the life of life, a clinging fiend 
Which clench'd him if he stirr'd with deadlier hold ; 
And so his grief remain'd — let it remain — untold.* 



PART II. 



Prince Athanase had one beloved friend, 

An old, old man, with hair of silver white, 

And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend 

With his wise words ; and eyes whose arrowy light 
Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. 
He was the last whom superstition's blight 

Had spared in Greece — the blight that cramps and 

blinds, — 
And in his olive bower at (Enoe 
Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds 

A fertile island in the barren sea. 

One mariner who has survived his mates 

Many a drear month in a great ship — so he, 

With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates 
Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being : — 
" The mind becomes that which it contemplates," 

And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing 

Their bright creations, grew like wisest men ; 

And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing 

A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, 

O sacred Hellas ! many weary years 

He wander'd till the path of Laian's glen 

Was grass-grown — and the unremember'd tears 

Were dry in Laian for their honor'd chief, 

Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears : — 

And as the lady look'd with faithful grief 
From her high lattice o'er the rugged path. 
Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief 

And blighting hope, who with the news of death 
Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight, 
She saw beneath the chestnuts, far beneath. 



* The Author was pursuing a fuller development of the 
ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him that in 
an attempt at extreme refinement and analysis, his con- 
ceptions might be betrayed into the assuming a morbid 
character. The reader will judge whether he is a loser 
or gainer by this diffidence.— .^utAor's JVofe. 



An old man toiling up, a weary wight; 

And soon within her hospitable hall 

She saw his while hairs ghttering in the light 

Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall ; 
And his wan visage and his wither'd mien 
Yet calm and [ ] and majestical. 

And Athanase, her child, who must have been 
Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed. 



FRAGMENT II. 

Such was Zonoras ; and as daylight finds 
An amaranth glittering on the path of frost, 
When autumn nights have nipt all weaker kinds, 

Thus had his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tost, 
Shone truth uj)on Zonoras ; and he fiU'd 
From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost. 

The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, 
With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore 
And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild 

And sweet and subtle talk they evermore, 
The pupil and master shared ; until. 
Sharing the undiminishable store, 

The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill 
Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran 
His teacher, and did teach with native skill 

Strange truths and new to that experienced man ; 
Still they were friends, as few have ever been 
Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span. 

And in the caverns of the forest green. 
Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, 
Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen 

By summer woodmen ; and when winter's roar 

Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war. 

The Balearic fisher, driven from shore, * 

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar. 

Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam. 

Piercing the stormy darkness like a star. 

Which pours beyond the sea one stedfast beam. 

Whilst all the constellations of the sky 

Seem'd wrecked. They did but seem — 

For, lo ! the wintry clouds are all gone by. 

And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing. 

And far o'er southern waves, immovably 

Belted Orion hangs — warm light is flowing 
From the young moon into the sunset's chasm. — 
" O, summer night ! with power divine, bestowing 

" On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm 
Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness. 
Filling the sky like light ! How many a spasm 
520 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



273 



« Of fever'd brains, oppress'd with grief and madness, 

Were luU'd by thee, delightful nightingale ! 

And those soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, 

« And the far sighings of yon piny dale 

Made vocal by some wind;r we feel not here, — 

I bear alone what nothing may avail 

« To lighten— a strange load !"— No human ear 
Heard this lament ; but o'er the visage wan 
Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere 

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran. 
Like wind upon some forest-bosom'd lake. 
Glassy and dark. — And that divine old man 

Beheld his mjretic friend's whole being shake. 
Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest — 
And with a calm and measured voice he spake, 

And with a soft and equal pressure, prest 

That cold lean hand : — " Dost thou remember yet 

When the curved moon, then hngering in the west, 

" Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to wet. 
How in those beams we walk'd, half resting on the 

sea? 
'Tis just one year— sure thou dost not forget— 

« Then Plato's words of light in thee and me 
Linger'd like moonlight in the moonless east, 
For we had just then read — thy memory 

<' Is faithful now — the story of the feast ; 

And Agathon and Diotima seem'd 

From death and [ ] released. 



FRAGMENT III. 

'TwAS at the season when the Earth upsprings 
From slumber, as a sphered angel's child. 
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings, 

Stands up before its mother bright and mild, 
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems — 
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled 

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, 
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove 
Wax'd green— and flowers burst forth like starry 
beams ; — 

The grass in the warm sun did start and move. 
And sea-buds burst under the waves serene :— 
How many a one, though none be near to love, 

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen 
In any mirror — or the spring's young minions. 
The winged leaves amid the copses green ;— 

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions 
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, 
And his own steps — and over wide dominions 

I Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, 
More fleet than storms — the wide world shrinks below 
When winter and despondency are past. 
3Q 



'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase 

Past the white Alps — those eagle-baffling mountains 

Slept in their shrouds of snow ; — beside the ways 

The waterfalls were voiceless— for their fountains 
Were changed to mines of sxmless crystal now, 
Or by the curdling winds — ^like brazen wings 

Which clang'd alone the mountain's marble brow, 
Warp'd into adamantine fretwork, hung 
And fill'd with firozen light the chasm below. 



FRAGMENT IV. 

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
We can desire, O Love ! and happy souls. 
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fell, 

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls 
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew ; — 
Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls 

Invests it ; and when heavens are blue 
Thou fillest them ; and when the earth is fair, 
The shadow of thy moving wings imbue 

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear 
Beauty like some bright robe ; — thou ever soarest 
Among the towers of men, and as soft air ♦ 

In spring, which moves the unawaken'd forest, 
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak. 
Thou floatest among men ; and aye implorest 

That which from thee they should implore : — the weak 

Alone kneel to thee, oflfering up the hearts 

The strong have broken — yet where shall any seek 

A garment whom thou clothest not ? 
Marlow, 1817. 



MAZENGHL* 

Oh ! foster-nurse of man's abandon'd glory. 
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendor ; 
Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story. 
As ocean its wreck'd fanes, severe yet tender : 
The light-invested angel Poesy 
Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee. 

And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught 

By loftiest meditations ; marble knew 

The sculptor's fearless soul — and as he wrought, 

The grace of his own power and freedom grew. 

And more than all, heroic, just, sublime 

Thou wert among the false — was this thy crime ? 

Yes ; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine 
Of direst weeds hangs garlanded — the snake 
Inhabits its wreck'd palaces ; — in thine 
A beast of subtler venom now doth make 
Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, 
And thus thy victim's fate is as thine own. 

* This fragment refers to an event, told in Sismondi's 
Histoire des R6publiques Italiennes, which occurred du- 
ring the war when Florence finally subdued Pisa, and re- 
duced itto a province. The opening stanzas are addressed 
to the conquering city. 



274 



SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare. 
And love and freedom blossom but to wither ; 
And good and ill like vines entangled are. 
So that their grapes may oft be pluck'd together ; — 
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make 
Thy heart rejoice for dead Mazenghi's sake. 

No record of his crime remains in story, 
But if the morning bright as evening shone, 
It was some high and holy deed, by glory 
Pursued into forgetfulness, which won 
From the blind crowd he made secure and free 
The patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy. 

For when by sound of trumpet was declared 
A price upon his life, and there was set 
A penalty of blood on all who shared 
So much of water with him as might wet 
His lips, which speech divided not — he went 
Alone, as you may guess, to banishment. 

Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast. 
He hid himself, and hunger, cold, and toil, 
Month after month endured ; it was a feast 
Whene'er he found those globes of deep-red gold 
Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear. 
Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. 

And in the roofless huts of vast morasses. 
Deserted by the fever-stricken serf, 
All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses, 
And hillocks heap'd of moss-inwoven turf. 
And where the huge and speckled aloe made 
Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade, 

He housed himself There is a point of strand 
Near Vada's tower and town ; and on one side 
The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, 
Shadow'd by pine and ilex forests wide. 
And on the other creeps eternally. 
Through muddy weeds, the shallow, sullen sea. 
Naples, 1818. 



THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 

A WOODMAN whose rough heart was out of tune 
(I think such hearts yet never came to good) 
Hated to hear, under the stars or moon. 

One nightingale in an interfluous wood 
Satiate the hungry dark with melody ; — 
And as a vale is water'd by a flood, 

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky 
Struggling with darkness — as a tuberose 
Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie 

Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, 
The singing of that happy nightingale 
In this sweet forest, from the golden close 

Of evening, till the star of davm may fall, 
Was interfused upon the silentness ; 
The folded roses and the violets pale 

Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss 
Of heaven with all its planets ; the dull e^ 
Of the night-cradled earth ; the loneliness 



Of the circumfluous waters, — every sphere 

And every flower and beam and cloud and wave. 

And every wind of the mute atmosphere, 

And every beast stretch'd in its rugged cave, 
And every bird luU'd on its mossy bough. 
And. every silver moth fresh from the grave. 

Which is its cradle — ever from below 
Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far 
To be consumed within the purest glow 

Of one serene and unapproached star, 
As if it were a lamp of earthly light. 
Unconscious, as some human lovers are, 

Itself how low, how high beyond all height 

The heaven where it would perish ! — and every form 

That worshipp'd in the temple of the night 

Was awed into delight, and by the charm 

Girt as with an interminable zone, 

Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm 

Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion 
Out of their dreams ,• harmony became love 
In every soul but one — 



And so this man return'd with axe and saw 
At evening close from killing the tall treen. 
The soul of whom by nature's gentle law 

Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green 
The pavement and the roof of the wild copse. 
Chequering the sunlight of the blue serene 

With jagged leaves, and from the forest tops 
Singing the winds to sleep — or weeping oft 
Fast showers of aerial water-drops 

Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft. 
Nature's pure tears which have no bitterness ; — 
Around the cradles of the birds aloft 

They spread themselves into the loveliness 
Of fan-like leaves, and over pallid flowers 
Hang like moist clouds : — or, where high branches 



Make a green space among the silent bowers. 
Like a vast fane in a metropolis, 
Surrounded by the columns and the towers 

All overwrought with branch-like traceries 
In which there is religion — and the mute 
Persuasion of unkindled melodies, 

Odors and gleams and murmurs, which the lute 

Of the blind pilot-spirit of the blast 

Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute. 

Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has past 

To such brief unison as on the brain 

One tone, which never can recur, has cast. 



One accent never to return again. 



522 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



275 



TO THE MOON. 
Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering compamonless 
Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy ? 



SONG FOR TASSO. 
I LOVED — alas ! our life is love ; 
But when we cease to breathe and move, 
I do suppose love ceases too. 
I thought, but not as now I do, 
Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore. 
Of all that men had thought before. 
And all that nature shows, and more. 

And still I love, and still I think. 
But strangely, for my heart can drink 
The dregs of such despair, and live. 
And love ; [ ] 

And if I thLik, my thoughts come fast, 
I mix the present with the past, 
And each seems uglier than the last. 



Sometimes I see before me flee 

A silver spirit's form, like thee, 

O Leonora, and I sit 

[ ] still watching it. 

Till by the grated casement's ledge 

It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge 

Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge. 



EPITAPR 



These are two friends whose lives were undivided 
So let their memory be, now they have glided 
Under the grave ; let not their bones be parted, 
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted. 



THE WANING MOON. 

And like a dying lady, lean and pale. 
Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil, 
Out of her chamber, led by the insane 
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain. 
The moon arose up in the murky earth, 
A white and shapeless mass. 

623 



THE END OF SHELLEY'S POETICAL WORKSL 



THE 



JOHN KEATS 



I 



©ontente* 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS . . 
ENDYMION; a Poetic Romance. 



Page 



LAMIA 34 

ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL; a 

Story from Boccaccio 40 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 44 

i HYPERION 48 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— 

Dedication to Leigh Hunt, Esq 55 

" I stood tiptoe upon a little hill " ib. 

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem .... 57 

Calidore ; a Fragment 58 

To some Ladies on receiving a curious Shell 59 
On receiving a Copy of Verses from the 

same Ladies ib. 

To 60 

To Hope ib. 

Imitation of Spenser 61 

" WomanI when I behold thee flippant, vain" ib. 

Ode to a Nightingale ib. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 62 

Ode to Pysche 63 

Fancy ib. 

Ode 64 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern ib. 

Robin Hood 65 

To Autumn ib. 

Ode on Melancholy ib. 

Sleep and Poetry 66 



I 



Page 

Sonnet To my Brother George 69 

To ib. 

Written on the day that Mr. Leigh 

Hunt left Prison ib. 

• " How many bards gild the lapses 

of time ! " ib. 

• To a Friend who sent me some Roses ib. 

ToG. A. W 70 

" O Solitude ! if I must with thee 

dwell " ib. 

To my Brothers ib. 

• " Keen fitful gusts are whispering 
here and there" ib. 

• " To one who has been long in 
city pent " ib. 

■ On first looking into Chapman's 

Homer ib. 

On leaving some Friends at an 

early hour ib. 

Addressed to Haydon 71 

■ the same ib. 

• On the Grasshopper and Cricket . ib. 
To Kosciusko ib. 

" Happy is England ! I could be 

content " ib. 

The Human Seasons ib. 

On a Picture of Leander ib. 

To Ailsa Rock ib. 

Epistles. To George Felton Mathew 72 

To my Brother George ib. 

To Charles Cowden Clarke 74 

Stanzas 75 

527 



j^emoitr of 3ioHn ^tutu. 



The short career of John Keats was marked by 
the development of powers which have been rarely 
exhibited in one at so immatured an age. He had 
but just completed his twenty-fourth year when 
he was snatched away from the world, and an end 
put for ever to a genius of a lofty and novel order. 
Certain party critics, who made it their object to 
lacerate the feelings, and endeavor to put down by 
vituperation and misplaced ridicule every effort 
which emanated not from their own servile de- 
pendants or followers, furiously attacked the wri- 
tings of Keats on their appearance. Their promise 
of greater excellence was unquestionable, their 
beauties were obvious, — ^but so also were defects, 
which might easily be made available for an attack 
upon the author ; and which certain writers of the 
Quarterly Review instantly seized upon to gratify 
party malice, — ^not against the author so much as 
against his friends. The unmerited abuse poured 
upon Keats by this periodical work is supposed to 
have hastened his end, which was slowly ap- 
proaching when the criticism before-mentioned 
appeared. 

This original and singular example of poetical 
genius was of humble descent, and was born in 
Moorfields, London, October 29, 1796, at a Hvery- 
stables which had belonged to his grandfather. 
He received a classical education at Enfield, under 
a Mr. Clarke, and was apprenticed to Mr. Ham- 
mond, a surgeon at Edmonton. The son of his 
schoolmaster Clarke encouraged the first germs of 
the poetical faculty which he early observed in the 
young poet, and introduced him to Mr. Leigh 
Hunt, who is reported to have been the means of 
his introduction to the public. Keats was an indi- 
vidual of extreme sensitiveness, so that he would 
betray emotion even to tears on hearing a noble 
action recited, or at the mention of a glowing 
thought or one of deep pathos : yet both his moral 
and personal courage were above all suspicion. 
His health was always delicate, for he had been 
a seven months' child; and it appears that the 
symptoms of premature decay, or rather of fragile 
vitality, were long indicated by his organization, 
before consumption decidedly displayed itself. 

The juvenile productions of Keats were pub- 
lished in 1817, the author being at that time in 
his twenty-first year. His favorite sojourn appears 
to have been Hampstead, the localities of which 
3R 



village were the scenes of his earliest abstractions, 
and the prompters of many of his best poetical 
productions : most of his personal friends, too, re- 
sided in the neighborhood. His first published 
volume, though the greater part of it was not 
above mediocrity, contained passages and lines of 
rare beauty. His political sentiments differing 
from those of the Quarterly Review, being manly 
and independent, were sins never to be forgiven ; 
and as in that party work literary judgment was 
always dealt out according to political congeniali- 
ty of feeling, with the known servility of its wri- 
ters, an author like Keats had no chance of being 
judged fairly. He was friendless and unknown, 
and could not even attract notice to a just com- 
plaint if he appealed to the public, from his being 
yet obscure as an author. This Gifford, the editor 
of the Quarterly, well knew, and poured his ma- 
lignity upon his unoffending victim in proportion 
as he was conscious of the want of power in the 
object of his attack to resist it. A scion of nobility 
might have scribbled nonsense and been certain 
of applause ; but a singular genius springing up 
by its own vitality in an obscure corner, was by 
all means to be crushed. — Gifford had been a cob- 
bler, and the son of the livery-stable-keeper was 
not worthy of his critical toleration ! Thus it al- 
ways is with those narrow-minded persons who 
rise by the force of accident from vulgar obscu- 
rity : they cannot tolerate a brother, much less su- 
perior power or genius in that brother. On the 
publication of Keats's next work, "Endymion," 
Gifford attacked it with all the bitterness of which 
his pen was capable, and did not hesitate, before 
he saw the work, to announce his intention of 
doing so to the pubhsher. Keats had endeavored, 
as much as was consistent with independent feel- 
ing, to conciliate the critics at large, as may be 
observed in his preface to that poem. He merited 
to be treated with indulgence, not wounded by the 
envenomed shafts of political animosity for literary 
errors. His book abounded in passages of true 
poetry, which were of course passed over ; and it 
is difficult to decide whether the cowardice or the 
cruelty of the attack upon it, most deserve execra- 
tion. Of great sensitiveness, as already observed, 
and his frame already touched by a mortal dis- 
temper, he felt his hopes withered, and his at- 
tempts to obtain honorable public notice in his 
529 



VI 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



own scantily allotted days frustrated. He was 
never to see his honorable fame : this preyed upon 
his spirit and hastened his end, as has been alrea- 
dy noticed. The third and last of his works was 
the little volume (his best work) containing " La- 
mia," " Isabella," " The Eve of St. Agnes," and 
" Hyperion." — That he was not a finished writer, 
must be conceded ; that, like KcErner in Germany, 
he gave rich promise rather than matured fruit, 
may be granted ; but they must indeed be ill 
judges of genius who are not delighted with what 
he left, and do not see that, ha,d he lived, he might 
have worn a wreath of renown which time would 
not easily have withered. His was indeed an " un- 
toward fate," as Byron observes of him in the 
eleventh canto of " Don Juan," 

For several years before his death, Keats had 
felt that the disease which preyed upon him was 
mortal, — ^that the agents of decay were at work 
upon a body too imperfectly organized, or too 
feebly constructed to sustain long the fire of exist- 
ence. He had neglected his own health to attend 
a brother on his death-bed, when it would have 
been far more prudent that he had recollected it 
was necessary he should take care of himself. 
Under the bereavement of this brother he was 
combating his keen feelings, when the Zoilus of 
the Quarterly so ferociously attacked him. The 
excitement of spirit was too much for his frame to 
sustain ; and a blow from another quarter, coming 
about the same time, shook him so much, that he 
told a friend with tears " his heart was breaking." 
— He was now persuaded to try the climate of 
Italy, the refuge of those who have no more to 
hope for in their own ; but v/hich is commonly de- 
layed until the removal only leads the traveller to 
the tomb. Thither he went to die. He was ac- 
companied by Mr. Severn, an artist of considerable 
talent, well known since in Rome. Mr. Severn 
was a valuable and attached friend of the poet ; 
and they went first to Naples, and thence journey- 
ed to Rome, — where Keats closed his eyes on the 
world on the 24th of February, 1821. He wished 
ardently for death before it came. The springs of 
vitality were left nearly dry long before ; his lin- 
gering as he did astonished his medical attendants. 
His sufferings were great, but he was all resigna- 
tion. He said, not long before he died, that he 
" felt the flowers growing over him." 

On the examination of his body, post mortem, 
by his physicians, they found that life rarely so 
long tenanted a body shattered as his was : his 
lungs were well-nigh annihilated. — His remains 
were deposited in the cemetery of the Protestants 
at Rome, at the foot of the pyramid of Caius Ces- 
tius, near the Porta San Paolo, where a white 
marble tombstone, bearing the following inscrip- 
tion, surmounted by a lyre in basso relievo^ has 
been erected to his memory : — 



This Grave 
contains all that was mortal 

of a 

YOUNG ENGLISH POET, 

who, 

on his death-bed, 

in the bitterness of his heart 

■ at the malicious power of his enemies, 

desired 

these words to be engraved on his tombstone— 

HERE LIES ONE 
WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER. 

Feb. 24th, 1821. 

The physiognomy of the young poet indicated 
his character. Sensibility was predominant, but 
there was no deficiency of power. His features 
were well-defined, and delicately susceptible of 
every impression. His eyes v/ere large and dark, 
but his cheeks were sunk, and his face pale when 
he was tranquil. His hair was of a brown color, 
and curled naturally. His head was small, and 
set upon broad high shoulders, and a body dispro- 
portionately large to his lower limbs, which, how- 
ever, were well-made. His stature Avas low ; and 
his hands, says a friend (Mr. L. Hunt), were 
faded, having prominent veins — which he would 
look upon, and pronounce to belong to one who 
had seen fifty years. His temper was of the gen- 
tlest description, and he felt deeply all favors con- 
ferred upon him : in fact, he was one of those 
marked and rare characters which genius stamps 
from their birth in her own mould; and whose 
early consignment to the tomb has, it is most 
probable, deprived the world of works calculated 
to delight, if not to astonish mankind — of produc- 
tions to which every congenial spirit and kind 
quality of the human heart would have done 
homage, and confessed the power. It is to be la- 
mented that such promise should have been so 
prematurely blighted. 

Scattered through the writings of Keats will 
be found passages which come home to every 
bosom alive to each nobler and kindlier feeling of 
the human heart. There is much in them to be 
corrected, much to be altered for the better ; bu* 
there are sparkling gems of the first lustre every- 
where to be found. It is strange, that in civilized 
societies writings should be judged of, not by their 
merits, but by the faction to which their author 
belongs, though their productions may be solely 
confined to subjects the most remote from contro 
versy. In England, a party -man must yield up 
every thing to the opinions and dogmatism of his 
caste. He must reject truths, pervert reason, mis- 
represent all things coming from an opponent of 
another creed in religion or politics. Such a state 
of virulent and lamentable narrow-mindedness, is 
the most certain that can exist for blighting the 
tender blossoms of genius, and blasting the inno- 
cent and virtuous hopes of the young aspirant afl 
ter honest fame. It is not necessary that a young 
530 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



Vll 



and ardent mind avow principles hostile to those 
who set up for its enemies — if he be but the friend 
of a friend openly opposed to them, it is enough ; 
and the worst is, that the hostility displayed is 
neither limited by truth and candor, sound princi- 
ples of criticism, humanity, or honorable feeling : 
it fights with all weapons, in the dark or in the 
light, by craft, or in any mode to obtain its bitter 
objects. The critics who hastened the end of 
Keats, had his works been set before them as being 
those of an unknown writer, would have acknow- 
ledged their talent, and applauded where it was 
due, for their attacks upon him were not made 
from lack of judgment, but from wilful hostility. 
One knows not how to characterize such demonia- 



cal insincerity. Keats belonged to a school of 
politics which they from their ambush anathema- 
tized : — hence, and hence alone, their malice to- 
wards him. 

Keats was, as a poet, like a rich fruit-tree which 
the gardener has not pruned of its luxuriance : 
time, had it been allotted him by Heaven, would 
have seen it as trim and rich as any brother of the 
garden. It is and will ever be regretted by the 
readers of his works, that he lingered no longer 
among living men, to bring to perfection what he 
meditated, to contribute to British literature a 
greater name, and to delight the lovers of true 
poetry with the rich melody of his musically em- 
bodied thoughts. 

531 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 



<» 



Sntrfiwion; 



A POETIC ROMANCE. 

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



The stretched metre of an Antique Song. 



PREFACE. 

Knowing within myself the manner in which this 
Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling 
of regret that I make it public. 

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the 
reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, 
immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish at- 
tempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two 
first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible 
are not of such completion as to warrant their passing 
the press ; nor should they, if I thought a year's cas- 
tigation would do them any good ,• — it will not : the 
foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster 
should die away : a sad thought for me, if I had not 
some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plot- 
ting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. 

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and 
may deserve a punishment : but no feeling man will 
be forward to inflict it : he will leave me alone, with 
the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the 
failure in a great object. This is not written with 
the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of 
course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men 
who are competent to look, and who do look with a 
jealous eye, to the honor of English literature. 

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the ma- 
ture imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a 
space of life between, in which the soul is in a fer- 
ment, the character undecided, the way of life un- 
certain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceed 
mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which 
those men I speak of, must necessarily taste in going 
over the following pages. 

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the 
beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its b^igh^ 
ness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it 
farewell. 

Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. 



ENDYMION. 



BOOK I. 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 

Its loveliness increases ; it will never 

Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of th' inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all. 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep ; and such are daflJ)dils 

With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, 
They always must be with us, or we die. 
533 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music «>f the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now while the early budders are just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests ; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I '11 smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours, 
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it half finish'd : but let Autumn bold, 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 



Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequester'd deep, 
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep 
A lamb stray'd far adown those inmost glens, 
Never again saw he the happy pens 
Whither his brethren, bleating with content. 
Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds 't was believed ever. 
That not one fleecy lainb which thus did sever 
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried 
By any wolf, or pard with prying head. 
Until it came to some unfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan : ay, great his gains 
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny. 
And ivy banks ; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the swell 
Of turf and slanting branches : who could tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven above. 
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through which a 

dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 



Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken fairy fantasies to strew 
Palsies upon the sacred sward last eve, 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 'twas the mom : Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 



Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 

A melancholy spirit well might win 

Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 

Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine 

Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun ; 

The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run 

To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 

Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the mass 

Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold. 

To feel this sunrise and its glories old. 

Now while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; 
Who, gathering round the altar, seem'd to pry 
Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then 
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave 
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave. 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking 
Through copse-clad valleys, — ere their death, o'ei- 

taking 
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 
Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 
Into the widest alley they all past. 
Making directly for the woodland altar. 
O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue falter 
In telling of this goodly company. 
Of their old piety, and of their glee : 
But let a portion of ethereal dew 
Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
My soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring; 
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. 

Leading the way, young damsels danced along. 
Bearing the burden of a shepherd's song ; 
Each having a white wicker over-brimm'd 
With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd. 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks 
As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe. 
When the great deity, for earth too ripe, 
Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
In music, through the vales of Thessaly : 
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, 
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, ^ 
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
A venerable priest full soberly. 
Begirt with ministering looks : alway his eye 
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there svmng a vase, milk-white, 
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light ; 
And in his left he held a basket full 
Of all sweet herbs that searchmg eye could cull ; 
Wild thyme, and valley-liUes whiter still 
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
534 



ENDYMION. 



His aged head, crown'd with beechen wreath, 

Seem'd Uke a poll of ivy in the teeth 

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd 

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 

Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, 

Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd 

Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car 

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown : 

Who stood therein did seem of great renown 

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, 

Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 

And, for those simple times, his garments were 

A chieftain king's : beneath his breast, half bare. 

Was hung a silver bugle, and between 

His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. 

A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd, 

To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd 

Of idleness in groves Elysian : 

But there were some who feelingly could scan 

A lurking trouble in his nether lip. 

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 

Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, 

And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry, 

Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day, 

Why should our young Endymion pine away ! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged, 
Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd their sons to silence ; while each cheek 
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. 
Endymion too, without a forest peer. 
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, 
Among his brothers of the mountain chase. 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least. 
And, after lifting up his aged hands, 
Thus spake he : " Men of Latmos ! shepherd bands ! 
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks : 
Whether descended from beneath the rocks 
That overtop your mountains ; whether come 
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb ; 
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze 
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whose precious charge 
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge. 
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 
Mothers and wives ! who day by day prepare 
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air ; 
And all ye gentle girls who foster up 
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 
Will put choice honey for a favor'd youth : 
Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
Night-swollen mushrooms ? Are not our wide plains 
Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have not rains 
Green'd over April's lap ? No howling sad 
Sickens our fearful ewes ; and we have had 
Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
The earth is glad : the merry lark has pour'd 
His early song against yon breezy sky. 
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 



Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honor of the shepherd-god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile. 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 
Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 



" O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowei-s in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth x 

Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 



"O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles. 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
Their fairest blossom 'd beans and poppied corn ; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn. 
To sing for thee ; low creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near. 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O forester divine ! 



" Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main. 
And gather up all fancifuUest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells. 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping. 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
Hear us, O satyr king ! 



" O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn, 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : 
535 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
That come a-swooiiing over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors : 
Dread opene* of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dryope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With lea\fcs about their brows ! 

" Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourn of Heaven, 
Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven, 
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth. 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth: 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending. 
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean ! " 

Even while they brought the burden to a close, 
A shout from the whole multitude arose, 
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine. 
Young companies nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. 
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes forgotten — out of memory : 
Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bred 
Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead. 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
High genitors, unconscious did they cull 
Time's sweet first-fruits — they danced to weariness. 
And then in quiet circles did they press 
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end 
Of some strange history, potent to send 
A young mind from its bodily tenement. 
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 
On either side 5 pitying the sad death 
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath 
Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent, 
Wlio now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, 
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 
The archers too, upon a wider plain. 
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft. 
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft 
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, 
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelop 
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee 
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, 
Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her lovely young 
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip. 
And very, very deadliness did nip 
Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from this sad mood 
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, 
Uplifting his strong bow into the air, 
Many might after brighter visions stare : 
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, 



Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, 

There shot a golden splendor far and wide, 

Spangling those million poutings of the brine 

With quivering ore : 't was even an awful shine 

From the exaltation of Apollo's bow ; 

A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 

Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, 

Might turn their steps towards the sober ring 

Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 

'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increased 

The silvery setting of their mortal star. 

There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 

That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; 

And what our duties there : to nightly call 

Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather ; 

To summon all the downiest clouds together 

For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 

In ministering the potent rule of fate 

With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations ; 

To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 

Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 

A world of other unguess'd offices. 

Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, 

Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse 

Each one his own anticipated bliss. 

One felt heart-certain that he could not miss 

His quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs. 

Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 

Her lips with music for the welcoming. 

Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 

To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails. 

Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales : 

Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind 

And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind ; 

And, ever after, through those regions be 

His messenger, his little Mercury. 

Some were athirst in soul to see again 

Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide champaign 

In times long past ; to sit with them, and talk 

Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 

Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 

Of happiness, to when upon the moors. 

Benighted, close, they huddled from the cold, 

And shared their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told 

Their fond imaginations, — saving him 

Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, 

Endymion : yet hourly had he striven 

To hide the cankering venom, that had riven 

His fainting recollections. Now indeed 

His senses had swoon'd oflf: he did not heed 

The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 

Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe. 

Or anxious cal'ls, or close of trembling palms. 

Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 

But in the self-same fixed trance he kept. 

Like one who on the earth had never stept. 

Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man, 

Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? 
Peona, his sweet sister : of all those, 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, 
And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade 
A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 
She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
636 



ENDYMION. 



Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, 
Along a path between two little streams, — 
Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow. 
From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow 
From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small ; 
Until they came to where these streamlets fall, 
With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, 
Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 
With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. 
A little shallop floating there hard by, 
Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 
And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, 
And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,— 
Peona guiding, through the water straight, 
Towards a bowery island opposite ; 
Which gaining presently, she steered light 
Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove. 
Where nested was an arbor, overwove 
By many a summer's silent fingering ; 
To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 
Her playmates, with their needle broidery, 
And minstrel memories of times gone by. 



So she was gently glad to see him laid 
Under her favorite bower's quiet shade. 
On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
Wheri last the sun his autumn tresses shook, 
And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips. 
And still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
A patient watch over the stream that creeps 
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 
Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling 
Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard. 



O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird. 
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfined 
Restraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
And moonlight ; aye, to all the mazy world 
Of silvery enchantn^nt ! — who, upfurl'd 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, 
But renovates and lives ? — Thus, in the bower, 
Endymidfc was calm'd to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, 
He said : " I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of May, 
As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt 
Of sisterly aflfection. Can I want 
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears ? 
Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
That, any longer, I will pass my days 
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
3S 



My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more 
Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar : 
Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll 
Around the breathed boar : again I '11 poll 
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow : 
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, 
Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead 
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 
And, if thy lute is here, softly entreat 
My soul to keep in its resolved course." 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source. 
Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim, 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. 'T was a lay 
More subtle cadenced, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child ; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd 
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw 
Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung the lute aside, 
And earnestly said : " Brother, 'tis vain to hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
Immortal, starry ; such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught 
Oflfensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, 
Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked limbs among the alders green ; 
And that, alas ! is death. No, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy face ! " 

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand. 
And said, " Art thou so pale, who wast so bland 
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 
Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss i — 
Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 
Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange ? 
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize. 
That toiling years would put within my grasp. 
That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
No man e'er panted for a mortal love. 
So all have set my heavier grief above 
These things which happen. Rightly have they done : 
I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, 
Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
I, who, for very sport of heart, would race 
With my own steed from Araby ; pluck down 
A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
A lion into growling, loth retire — 
To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire. 
And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast 
Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

" This river does not see the naked sky. 
Till it begins to progress silverly 

537 



6 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Around the western border of the wood, 

Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood 

Seems at the distance hke a crescent moon : 

And in that nook, the very pride of June, 

Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 

The rather for the sun unwilUng leaves 

So dear a picture of his sovereign power, 

And I could witness his most kingly hour. 

When he doth lighten up the golden reins. 

And paces leisurely down amber plains 

His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 

Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast. 

There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 

Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red : 

At which I wonder'd greatly, knowing well 

That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; 

And, sitting down close by, began to muse 

What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, 

In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 

Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 

Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 

Had dipt his rod in it : such garland wealth 

Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, 

Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 

Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 

A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul ; 

And shaping visions all about my sight 

Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 

The which became more strange, and strange, and 

dim. 
And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous swim: 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendor pours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward glance : 
So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
When, presently, the stars began to glide. 
And faint away, before my eager view : 
At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue. 
And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge ; 
And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 
The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 
A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did soar 
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 
Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 
Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 
At last into a dark and vapory tent — 
Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 
Of planets all were in the blue again. 
To commune with those orbs, once more I raised 
My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 
By a bright something, sailing down apace. 
Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 
Again I look'd, and, O ye deities. 
Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 
Whence oame that high perfection of all sweetness ? 



Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 

Nor oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun | 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun 

Such follying before thee — yet she had. 

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 

And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow , 

The which were blended in, I know not how. 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 

And plays about its fancy, till the stings 

Of human neighborhood envenom all. 

Unto what awful power shall I call ? 

To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering feet. 

More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet 

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 

From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 

Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 

'T is blue, and over-spangled with a million 

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed. 

Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 

Handfuls of daisies." — " Endymion,' how strange ! 

Dream within dream ! " — " She took an airy range. 

And then, towards me, like a very maid. 

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 

And press'd me by the hand : Ah! 'twas too much' 

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 

Yet held my recollection, even as one 

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 

I felt upmounted in that region 

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth. 

And eagles struggle with the buffeting north 

That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 

Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone. 

But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. 

Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high. 

And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 

Such as aye muster where gray time has scoop'd 

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 

There hollow sounds aroused him, and I sigh'd 

To faint once more by looldng on my bliss — 

I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 

My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live. 

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 

Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count 

The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd 

A second self, that each might be redeem'd 

And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 

Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dared to press 

Her very cheek against my crowned lip, _ 

And, at that moment, felt my body dip 

Into a warmer air : a moment more. 

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 

Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 

A scent of violets, and blossoming limes. 

Loiter 'd around us ; then of honey cells. 

Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 

And once, above the edges of our nest. 

An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 

" Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'd me 
In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see, 
638 



ENDYMION. 



Far oflfj the shadows of his pinions dark, 

And stare them from me ? But no, hke a spark 

That needs must die, although its httle beam 

Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 

Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 

And so it was, until a gentle creep, 

A careful moving caught my waking ears, 

And up I started : Ah ! my sighs, my tears, 

My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies himg 

Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 

A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 

Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 

With leaden looks : the solitary breeze 

Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did tease 

With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 

Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 

Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus ! — 

Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues 

Of heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 

Were deepest dungeons ; heaths and sunny glades 

Were full of pestilent light ; our tairrtless rills 

Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills 

Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown 

In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown 

Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 

Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd 

In little journeys, I beheld in it 

A disguised demon, missioned to knit 

My soul with under darkness ; to entice 

My stumblings down some monstrous precipice : 

Therefore I eager folio w'd, and did curse 

The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 

Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven 

These things, with all their comfortings, are given 

To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 

Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 

Of weary life." - 



Thus ended he*, and both 
Sat silent : for the maid was very loth 
To answer; feeling well that breathed words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps. 
And wonders ; struggles to devise some blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say. Shame 
On this poor weakness! but, for all' her strife. 
She could as soon have crush'd away the life 
From a sick dove At length, to break the pause. 
She said with trembling chance : " Is this the cause ? 
This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas ! 
That one who through this middle earth should pass 
Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
His name upon the harp-string, should achieve 
No higher bard than simple maidenhood. 
Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood 
Left his young cheek ; and how he used to stray 
He knew not where ; and how he would say, nay, 
If any said 'twas love : and yet 'twas love ; 
What could it be but love ? How a ring-dove 
Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path ; 
And how he died : and then, that love doth scathe, 
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses ; 
And then the ballad of his sad life closes 
With sighs, and an alas ! — Endymion ! 
Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,— anon 



Among the winds at large — that all may hearken ! 

Although, before the crystal heavens darken, 

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 

Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, 

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands 

With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 

My pleasant days, because I could not mount 

Into those regions ? The Morphean fount 

(5f that fine element that visions, dreams. 

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams 

Into its airy channels with so subtle, 

So thin a breathing, that the spider's shuttle. 

Circled a million times within the space 

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, 

A tinting of its quality : how light 

Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more 

slight 
Than the mere nothing that engenders them ! 
Then wherefore sully the intrusted gem 
Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick ? 
Why pierce high-fronted honor to the quick 
For nothing but a dream ?" Hereat the youth 
Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 
Was in his plaited brow : yet, his eyelids 
Widen'd a httle, as when Zephyr bids 
A little breeze to creep between the fans 
Of careless butterflies : amid his pains 
He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, 
Full palatable ; and a color grew 
Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. 

"Poena ! ever have I long'd to slake 
My thirst ^or the world's praises : nothing base, 
No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace 
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared — 
Though now 'tis tatter'd ; leaving my bark bared 
And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope 
Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, 
To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 
Wherein lies happiness ? In that which becks 
Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
A fellowship with essence ; till we shine. 
Full alchemized, and free of space. Behold 
The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 
A rose-leaf round thy finger's taperness. 
And soothe thy lips : hist ! when the airy stress 
Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds. 
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 
Eolian magic from their lucid wombs : 
Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs ; 
Old ditties sigh above their father's grave ; 
Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave 
Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot ; 
Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit. 
Where long ago a giant battle was ; 
And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 
In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 
Feel we these things ! — that moment have we stept 
Into a sort of oneness, and our state 
Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 
Richer entanglements, enthralments far 
More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, 
To the chief intensity : the crown of these 
Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 
Upon the forehead of humanity. • 

539 



8 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All its more ponderous and bulky worth 

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 

A steady splendor ,• but at the tip-top, 

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 

Of light, and that is love : its influence 

Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, 

At which we start and fret ; till in the end, 

Melting into its radiance, we blend. 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, 

That men, who might have tower'd in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry. 

Have been content to let occasion die, 

Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high. 

And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-gray hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath. 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth : 

What I know not : ' but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruits would 

swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
'Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,. 
If human souls did never kiss and greet ?j 

" Now, if this earthly love has power to make | 
Men's being mortal, immortal ; to shake / 

Ambition from their memories, and brim / 

Their measure of content ; what merest whim, 
Seems all this poor endeavor after fame. 
To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too. 
Look not so wilder'd ; for these things are true, 
And never can be born of atomies 
That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, 
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I 'm sure, 
My restless spirit never could endure 
To brood so long upon one luxury. 
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. 
My sayings will the less obscured seem 
When I have told thee how my waking sight 
Has made me scruple whether that same night 
Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona ! 
Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 
Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, 
Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows 
Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 
And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught. 



And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 
Past them, but he must brush on every side. 
Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell. 
Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 
Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 
Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. 
Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set 
Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 
Edges them round, and they have golden pits : 
'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits 
In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat. 
When all above was faint with midday heat. 
And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, 
I 'd bubble up the water through a reed ; 
So reaching back to boyhood : make me ships 
Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips. 
With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be 
Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily. 
When lovelorn hours had left me less a child, 
I sat contemplating the figures wild 
Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through. 
Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew 
A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; 
So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver 
The happy chance : so happy, I was fain 
To follow it upon the open plain. 
And, therefore, was just going ; when, behold ! 
A wonder, fair as any I have told — 
The same bright face I tasted in my sleep. 
Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap 
Through the cool depth.— It moved as if to flee — 
I started up, when lo ! refreshfully. 
There came upon my face, in plenteous showers. 
Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers 
Wrapping all objects from my smother'd sight, 
Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 
Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 
Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 
Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 
Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain 
Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth, 
On the deer's tender haunches : late, and loth, 
'Tis scared away by slow-returning pleasure. 
How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 
Of weary days, made deeper exquisite 
By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night ! 
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still. 
Than when I wander'd from the poppy-hill : 
And a whole age of lingering moments crept 
Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 
Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 
Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen ; 
Once more been tortured with renewed life. 
When last the wintry gusts gave over strife 
With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies 
Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd eyes 
In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, — 
That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs. 
My hunting-cap, because I laugh'd and smiled. 
Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 
All torment from my breast ;— 'twas even then, 
Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den 
Of helpless discontent,— hurling my lance 
From place to place, and following at chance, 
At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck. 
And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 
540 



ENDYMION. 



In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble 
Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble 
Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, 
Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave 
The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, — 
'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock 
Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 
Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread 
Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 
' Ah ! impious mortal, whither do I roam ? ' 
Said I, low- voiced : * Ah, whither! 'Tis the grot 
Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, 
Doth her resign: and where her tender hands 
She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 
Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits. 
And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 
Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 
Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 
Of sadness. O that she would take my vows. 
And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, 
To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, 
Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, 
And weave them dyingly — send honey-whispers 
Round every leaf, that all those gentle hspers 
May sigh my love unto her pitying ! 

charitable echo ! hear, and sing 
This ditty to her ! — tell her' — so I stay'd 
My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 
Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, 
And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. 
Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name 
Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came : 
• Endymion ! the cave is secreter 

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir 
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise 
Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys 
And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' 
At that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah! where 
Are those swift moments ? Whither are they fled ? 

1 '11 smile no more, Peona ; nor will wed 
Sorrow, the way to death ; but patiently 
Bear up against it : so farewell, sad sigh ; 
And come instead demurest meditation. 
To occupy me wholly, and to fashion 

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 
No more will I count over, link by link. 
My chain of grief: no longer strive to find 
A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 
Blustering about my ears : ay, thou shalt see. 
Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ; 
What a calm round of hours shall make my days. 
There is a paly flame of hope that plays 
Wliere'er I look : but yet, I'll say 'tis naught— 
And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 
Already, a more healthy countenance ? 
By this the sun is setting ; we may chance 
Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car." 



This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star 
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand : 
They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. 



BOOK 11. 

O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief! O balm ! 

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm','"] 

And shadowy, through the mist of passed yeai^i 

For others, good or bad, hatred and tears /'' 

Have become indolent; but touching thine, 

One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine. 

One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.- 

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, 

Stifl!^holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, 

Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all dimly fades 

Into some backward corner of the brain ; 

Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 

The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 

Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded cheat ! 

Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 

Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 

Many old rotten-timber'd boals there be 

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 

To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride. 

And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. 

But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly 

About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 

What care, though striding Alexander past 

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 

The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 

Doth more avail than these : the silver flow 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 

Are things to brood on with more ardency 

Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 

Must such conviction come upon his head, 

Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, 

Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 

The path of love and poesy. But rest. 

In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 

Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 

Love's standard on the battlements of song. 

So once more days and nights aid me along, 

Like legion'd soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd-prince ! 
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since 
The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sorrows 
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows ? 
Alas! 'tis his old grief For many days, 
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways : 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 
Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening still. 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
Now he is sitting by a shady spring. 
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Stems the upbursting cold : a wild rose-tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now 
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water : how 
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight 
And. in the middle, there is softly pight 
541 



10 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings 

There must be surely character'd strange things, 

For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft,- 
Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands : 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands 
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was ; 
And like a new-born spirit did he pass 
Through the green evening quiet in the sun, 
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun. 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams 
The summer-time away. One track unseams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him ; then, anew, 
He sinks adown a solitary glen. 
Where there was never sound of mortal men. 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-like cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet. 
To cheer itself lo Delphi. Still his feet 
Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, 
Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd 
Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, 
And, downward, suddenly began to dip. 
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip 
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch 
Even with mealy gold the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 
So fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed 
Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, 
What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest ? 
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 
To him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
And anxiously began to plait and twist 
Her ringlets round her fingers, saying : " Youth ! 
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, 
The bitterness of love : too long indeed, 
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 
Thy soul of care, by Heavens, I would oflfer 
All the bright riches of my crystal coflJer 
To Amphitrite ; all my clear-eyed fish, 
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; 
Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 
A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands 
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands 
By my diligent springs ; my level lihes, shells, 
My charming rod, my potent river spells ; 
Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup 
Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up 
To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 
But woe is me, I am but as a child 
To gladden thee ; and all I dare to say. 
Is, that I pity thee ; that on this day 
I 've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far 
In other regions, past the scanty bar 



To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 
From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 
Why it is thus, one knows in Heaven above : 
But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 
I have a ditty for my hollow cell." 



Hereat, she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, 
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : 
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool 
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool. 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, 
And fish were dimphng, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer. 
Holding his forehead, to keep oflT the burr 
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down ; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 
Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps. 
Thus breathed he to himself: " Whoso encamps 
To take a fancied city of delight, 

what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his. 
After long toil and travelhng, to miss 

The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile ! 
Yet, for him there 's refreshment even in toil : 
Another city doth he set about, 
Free from the smallest pebble-head of doubt 
That he will seize on trickling honeycombs : 
Alas, he finds them dry ; and then he foams. 
And onward to another city speeds. 
But this is human life : the war, the deeds, 
The disappointment, the anxiety. 
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh. 
All human ; bearing in themselves this good, 
That they are still the air, the subtle food, 
To make us feel existence, and to show 
How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow. 
Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me. 
There is no depth to strike in : I can see 
Naught earthly worth my compassing ; so stand 
Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 
Alone ? No, no ; and by the Orphean lute, 
When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 

1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak. 
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek. 
But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love. 
Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 

Of Heaven ! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair ! 
From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, 
Glance but one little beam of temper'd light 
Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 
And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 
Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spared, 
Would give a pang to jealous misery. 
Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie 
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out 
My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout 
Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, 
Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 
Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream. 
O be propitious, nor severely deem 
My madness impious ; for, by all the stars 
That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 
That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 
Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky ! 
542 



ENDYMION. 



U 



How beautiful thou art ! The world how deep ! 
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep 
Around their axle ! Then these gleaming reins, 
How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 
Its airy goal, haply some bower veils 
Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit fails — 
Dear goddess, help ! or the wide-gaping air 
Will gulf me — help ! " — At this, with madden'd stare, 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth : " De- 
scend, 
Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd 
As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been 
A little lower than the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep profound 
As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is crown'd 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead : so through the hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! " 

He heard but the last words, nor could contend 
One moment in reflection : for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. 

'T was far too strange, and wonderful for sadness ; 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light. 
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly. 
But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; 
A dusky empire and its diadems ; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold. 
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, 
With all its lines abrupt and angular : 
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star. 
Through a vast antre ; then the metal woof. 
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof 
Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss. 
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
Fancy into beUef : anon it leads 
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds 
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
Whether to silver grots, or giant range 
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge 
Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 
Towers like an ocean-cliff; and whence he seeth 
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb 
His bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
Old Darkness from his throne : 't was like the sun 
Uprisen o'er chaos : and with such a stun 
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it. 
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit 
Of any spirit to tell, b\it one of those 
Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close, 



Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? 
The mighty ones who have made eternal day 
For Greece and England. While astonishment 
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went 
Into a marble gallery, passing through 
A mimic temple, so complete and true 
In sacred custom, that he well-nigh fear'd 
To search it inwards ; whence far oflT appear'd, 
Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 
And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 
A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, 
The youth approach'd ; oft turning his veil'd eye ' * 
Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old : 
And, when more near against the marble cold 
He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread 
All courts and passages, where silence dead, 
Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd faint : 
And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint 
Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim. 
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim- 
There, when new wonders ceased to float before, 
And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore 
The journey homeward to habitual self! 
A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf. 
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier, 
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire. 
Into the bosom of a hated thing. 



What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught 
The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 'tis the thought. 
The deadly feel of solitude : for, lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 
In pink and purple chequer, nor up-piled. 
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west. 
Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest 
Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 
But far from such companionship to wear 
An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, 
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? 
" No ! " exclaimed he, " Why should I tarry here ?" 
No ! loudly echoed times innumerable. 
At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell 
His paces back into the temple's chief; 
Warming and glowing strong in the belief 
Of help from Dian : so that when again 
He caught her airy form, thus did he plain. 
Moving more near the while. " O Haunter chaste 
Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste. 
Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 
Art thou now forested ? O woodland Queen, 
What smoothest air thy smoother forehead wooes ? 
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 
Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what dark tree 
Ghmmers thy crescent ? Wheresoe'er it be, 
'Tis in the breath of heaven : thou dost taste 
Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste 
Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; 
But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, 
There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 
It feels Elysian, how rich to me, 

543 



12 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! 
Within my breast there lives a choking flame — 
O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs ; 
A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 
O let me slake it at the running springs ! 
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 
O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float — 
O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light ! 
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white ? 
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice ! 
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice ? 
O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
O think how I should love a bed of flowers ! — 
Young goddess ! let me see my native bowers! 
Deliver me from this rapacious deep!" 

Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap 
His destiny, alert he stood : but when 
Obstinate silence came heavily again, 
Feeling about for its old couch of space 
And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face. 
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. 
But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the rill 
To its old channel, or a swollen tide 
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, 
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns 
Up peeping through the slab : refreshment drowns 
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 
Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride 
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 
Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew 
Old ocean rolls a lengthen'd wave to the shore, 
Down whose green back the shortlived foam, all hoar. 
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes ; 
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
One moment with his hands among the sweets : 
Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats 
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, 
This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : 
For it came more softly than the east could blow 
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles 
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre 
To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 

O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
Who loved — and music slew not ? 'T is the pest 
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; 
That things of delicate and tenderest worth 
Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, 
By one consuming flame : it doth immerse 
And suffocate true blessings in a curse. 
Half-happy, by comparison of bliss. 
Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this 
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear; 
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, 
Vanish'd in elemental passion. 

And down some swart abysm he had gone, 
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led 
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head 



Brushing, awaken'd : then the sounds again 
Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 
Over a bower, where little space he stood ; 
For as the sunset peeps into a wood. 
So saw he panting light, and towards it went 
Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment! 
Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. 



After a thousand mazes overgone, 
At last, with sudden step, he came upon 
A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high. 
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy. 
And more of beautiful and strange beside : 
For on a silken couch of rosy pride. 
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth. 
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach : 
And coverhds gold-tinted hke the peach, 
Or ripe October's faded marigolds, 
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve 
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve 
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 
But rather, giving them to the fill'd sight 
OfBciously. Sideway his face reposed 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, 
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth 
To slumbery pout ; just as the morning south 
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head. 
Four lily stalks did their white honors wed 
To make a coronal ; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue. 
Together intertwined and tramell'd fresh : 
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, 
Shading its Elhiop berries ; and woodbine, 
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 
And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, 
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings. 
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; 
And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
At the youth's slumber ; while another took 
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. 
And shook it on his hair ; another flew 
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise 
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 



At these enchantments, and yet many more. 
The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er ; 
Until impatient in embarrassment. 
He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went 
To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway. 
Smiling, thus whisper'd : " Though from upper day 
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here 
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! 
For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor. 
When some ethereal and high-favoring donor 
Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ; 
As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
Was I in nowise startled. So recline 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, 
544 



ENDYMION. 



13 



Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager, 
So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears, 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona : here is cream, 
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 
Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd 
For the boy Jupiter : and here, undimm'd 
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
Ready to melt between an infant's gums : 
And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees, 
In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 
Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know 
Of all these things around us." He did so, 
Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; 
And thus : " I need not any hearing tire 
By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 
For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind 
Him all in all unto her doting self 
Who vwuld not be so prison'd ? but, fond elf, 
He was content to let her amorous plea 
Faint through his careless arms ; content to see 
An unseized heaven dying at his feet; 
Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat, 
When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, 
Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born 
Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes 
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs 
Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. 
Hush! no exclaim — yet, justly mightst thou call 
Curses upon his head. — I was half glad. 
But my poor mistress went distract and mad, 
When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew 
To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew 
Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard; 
Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd 
Each summer-time to life. Lo! this is he, 
That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 
Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 
Ay, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep 
Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower 
Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, 
Medicined death to a lengthen'd drowsiness : 
The which she fills with visions, and doth dress 
In all this quiet luxury ; and hath set 
Us young immortals, without any let, 
To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well-nigh pass'd, 
Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 
She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 
The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 
Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. 
Look, how those winged listeners all this while 
Stand anxious : see ! behold ! " — This clamant word 
Broke through the careful silence ; for they heard 
A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd 
Pigeons and doves : Adonis something mutter'd, 
The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh 
Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually 
Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 
Of sudden voices, echoing, " Come ! come ! 
Arise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth walk'd 
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 
Full soothingly to every nested finch : 
Rise, Cupids] or we'll give the bluebell pinch 
To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!" 
At this, from every side they hurried in, 
3T 



Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 

And doubling overhead their little fists 

In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 

For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 

In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair, 

So from the arbor roof down swell'd an air 

Odorous and enlivening ; making all 

To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 

For their sweet queen : when lo ! the wreathed green 

Disparted, and far upward could be seen 

Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne. 

Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of mom, 

Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling chill 

On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 

Nestle and turn uneasily about. 

Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd 

out. 
And silken traces lighten'd in descent ; 
And soon, returning from love's banishmert, 
Queen Venus leaning downward open-arm'd : 
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd 
A tumult to his heart, and a new life 
Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, 
But for her comforting ! unhappy sight, 
But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who can write 
Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse 
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. 

O it has ruffled every spirit there. 
Saving Love's self, who stands superb to share 
The general gladness : awfully he stands ; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands ; 
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
What themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 
There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes : 
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. 
Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
The burning prayer within him ; so, bent low. 
He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
But Venus, bending forward, said : " My child, 
Favor this gentle youth ; his days are wild 
With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 
Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 
Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true. 
That when through heavy hours I used to rue 
The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', 
This stranger aye I pitied. For upon 
A dreary morning once I fled away 
Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 
For this my love : for vexing Mars had teased 
Me even to tears : thence, when a little eased, 
Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 
I saw this youth as he despairing stood : 
Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind ; 
Those same full fringed lids a constant blind 
Over his sullen eyes : I saw him throw 
Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though 
Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved, 
Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved 
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 
Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace 
Of this in heaven : I have mark'd each cheek, 
And find it is the vainest thing lo seek ; 
545 



14 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And that of all things 'tis kept secretest. 

Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest r 

So still obey the guiding hand that fends 

Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 

'Tis a concealment needful in extreme ; 

And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam 

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu ! 

Here must we leave thee." — At these words up flew 

The impatient doves, up rose the floating ear, 

Up went the hum celestial. High afar 

The Latmian saw them minish into naught ; 

And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught 

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 

When all was darken'd, with JEtnean throe 

The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 

And left him once again in twilight lone. 



He did not rave, he did not stare aghast. 
For all those visions were o'ergone, and past, 
And he in loneliness : he felt assured 
Of happy times, when all he had endured 
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquoise floor, 
Black polish'd porticoes of awful shade, 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade. 
Leading afar past wild magnificence, 
Spiral through ruggedest loop-holes, and thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar. 
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; 
Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash 
The waters with his spear; but at the splash, 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to inclose 
His diamond path with fretwork streaming round 
Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound, 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells 
On this delight ; for, every minute's space. 
The streams with changed magic interlace : 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 
Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping trees, 
Moving about as in a gentle wind. 
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 
Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies, 
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries ' 
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 
Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; 
And then the water, into stubborn streams 
Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams, 
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, 
Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewell 
T» these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell. 
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, 
Half-seen through deepest gloom, and grisly gapes. 
Blackening on every side, and overhead 
A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 
With starlight gems : aye, all so huge and strange. 
The soUtary felt a hurried change 
Working within him into something dreary, — 
Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 



And purblind amid foggy midnight wolds. 
But he revives at once : for who beholds 
New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? 
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below. 
Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown 
About her majesty, and front death-pale, 
With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale 
The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws^ 
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away 
In another gloomy arch. 

Wherefore delay. 
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace 
The diamond path ? And does it indeed end 
Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward bend 
Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
Call ardently ! He was indeed wayworn ; 
Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; 
To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost 
Towards him a large eagle, 't wixt whose wings. 
Without one impious word, himself he flings. 
Committed to the darkness and the gloom : 
Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom. 
Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell 
Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel. 
And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed. 
Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed 
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd 
Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem'd 
With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 
The eagle landed him, and farewell took. 



It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 
With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 
Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 
Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 
Silence was music from the holy spheres; 
A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; 
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 
He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell 
Of sudden exaltation : but, " Alas • " 
Said he, " will all this gush of feeling pass 
Away in solitude ? And must they wane. 
Like melodies upon a sandy plain. 
Without an echo ? Then shall I be left 
So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! 
Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love. 
My breath of life, where art thou ? High above. 
Dancing before the morning gates of heaven ? 
Or keeping watch among those starry seven, 
Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the waters. 
One of shell- winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters? 
Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 
Weaving a coronal of tender scions 
For very idleness ? Where'er thou art, 
Methinks it now is at my will to start 
Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train, 
And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main 
546 



ENDYMION. 



IS 



To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 

From thy sea-foamy cradle ; or to doff 

Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid fresh leaves. 

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 

Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 

O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee 

To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 

Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 

For some few hours the coming solitude." 



Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued 
With power to dream deliciously ; so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 
He threw himself, and just into the air 
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! 
A naked waist: "Fair Cupid, whence is this?" 
A well-known voice sigh'd, " Sweetest, here am I!" 
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 
O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon ! 
That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er 
These sorry pages ; then the verse would soar 
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 
Over his nested young : but all is dark 
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 
Exhales in mists to Heaven. Ay, the count 
Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 
Is folded by the Muses ; the bright roll • 

Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes 
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : 
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, 
Although the sun of poesy is set. 
These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 
That there is no old power left to steep 
A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 
Long time in silence did their anxious fears 
Question that thus it was; long time they lay 
Fondling and kiesing every doubt away ; 
Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 
To mellow into words, and then there ran 
Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. 
" O known Unknown ! from whom my being sips 
Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 
Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot 
Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 
These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? 
Why not for ever and for ever feel 
That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt steal 
Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 
Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 
My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! 
Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 
To nluck thee from me ? And, of thine own will, 
Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still 
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
How can we part ? Elysium ! who art thou ? 
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here. 
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? 
, Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft complexion of thy face, 
Those lips, O slippery blisses ! twinkling eyes, 
And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 
The passion" " O loved Ida the divine ! 



Endymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me ! 

His soul will 'scape us — O felicity ! 

How he does love me ! His poor temples beat 

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet! 

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ; 

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 

In tranced dullness ; speak, and let that spell 

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell 

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 

My lips to thine, that they may richly feast 

Until we taste the life of love again. 

What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! pain! 

I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; 

And so long absence from thee doth bereave 

My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : 

Yet, can I not to starry eminence 

Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own 

Myself to thee. Ah, dearest ! do not groan, 

Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 

And I must blush in heaven. O that I 

Had done it already! that the dreadful smiles 

At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, 

Had waned from Olympus' solemn height. 

And from all serious Gods ; that our delight 

Was quite, forgotten, save of us alone ! 

And wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to atone 

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : 

Yet must I be a coward ! Horror rushes 

Too palpable before me — the sad look 

Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook 

With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 

In reverence veil'd — my crystalline dominion 

Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! 

But what is this to love ? Oh! I could fly 

With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, 

So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, 

Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once 

That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 

Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown— 

Oh ! I do think that I have been alone 

In chastity ! yes, Pallas has been sighing, 

While every eve saw me my hair uptying 

With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love ! 

I was as vague as solitary dove. 

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — 

Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss. 

An immortality of passion 's thine : 

Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 

Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; 

And I will tell thee stories of the sky, 

And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy, 

My happy love will overwing all bounds! 

O let me melt into thee ! let the sounds 

Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 

Let us entwine hoveringly ! — O dearth 

Of human words ! roughness of mortal speech! 

Lispings empyrean will I sometimes teach 

Thine honey'd tongue — ^lute-breathings, which I gasp 

To have thee understand, now while I clasp 

Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd, 

Endymion : woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd 

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ?"— 

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 

Melted into a languor. He return'd 

Entranced vows and tears. 

547 



16 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ye who have yearn 'd 
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, 
For the mere sake of truth ; as 'tis a ditty 
Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 
By a cavern wind unto a forest old ; 
And then the forest told it in a dream 
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam 
A poet caught as he was journeying 
To Phoebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 
His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
And after, straight in that inspired place 
He sang the story up into the air, 
Giving it universal freedom. There 
Has it been ever sounding for those ears 
Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers 
Yon sentinel stars ; and he who listens to it 
Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it : 
For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, 
Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
Should be ingulfed in the eddying wind. 
As much as here is penn'd doth always find 
A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain; 
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 
And 'tis but eclioed from departing sound, 
That the fair visitant at last unwound ^ 
Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — 
Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

Now turn we to our former chroniclers. — 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet plaining on his ear : he sickly guess'd 
How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd 
His empty arms together, hung his head, 
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had known : 
Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Moanings had burst from him ; but now that rage 
Had pass'd away : no longer did he wage 
A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars. 
No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars : 
The lyre of his soul Eolian-tuned 
Forgot all violence, and but communed 
With melancholy thought : O he had swoon'd 
Drunken from pleasure's nipple ! and his love 
Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 
From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 
'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid 
In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd 
Half seeing visions that might have dismay 'd 
Alecto's serpents ; ravishments more keen 
Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean 
Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last 
It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 
O'er-studded with a thousand, thousand pearls, 
And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls, 
Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 
In which whales arbor close, to brood and sulk 
Against an endless storm. Moreover too, 
Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue. 
Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder 
Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 
On all his life : his youth, up to the day 
When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, 
He stept upon his shepherd throne : the look 
Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 



And all the revels he had lorded there : 

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair. 

With every friend and lellow-woodlander — 

Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur 

Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans 

To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans : 

That -wondrous night : the great Pan-festival : 

His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all. 

Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd: 

Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd 

High with excessive love. " And now," thought he 

How long must I remain in jeopardy 
Of blank amazements that amaze no more ? 
Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core. 
All other depths are shallow : essences, - 

Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, 
Meant but to fertilize my earthly root. 
And make my branches lift a golden fruit 
Into the bloom of heaven : other light. 
Though it be quick and sliarp enough to blight 
The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, 
Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 
My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; 
Or are they but the ghosts, the dying swells 
Of noises far away ? — list! — Hereupon 
He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone 
Came louder, and behold, there as he lay. 
On either side out-gush'd, with misty spray, 
A copious spring ; and both together dash'd 
►Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd 
Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, 
Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot 
Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise 
As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise 
Upon the last few steps, and with spent force 
Along the ground they took a winding course. 
Endymion folio w'd — for it seem'd that one 
Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — 
Follow'd their languid mazes, till well-nigh 
He had left thinking of the mystery, — 
And was now rapt in tender hoverings 
Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah ! what is it sings 
His dream away ? What melodies are these ? 
They sound as through the whispering of trees, 
Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear! 

" O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, why. 
Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now. 
Circling about her waist, and striving how 
To entice her to a dive I then stealing in 
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 
O that her shining hair was in the sun. 
And I distilling from it thence to run 
In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 
Between her kissing breasts, and every charm 
Touch raptured ! — See how painfully I flow : 
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 
Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, 
A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 
Where all that beauty snared me." — " Cruel God 
Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod 
Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not 
548 



ENDYMION. 



17 



With syren words — Ah, have I really got 

Such power to madden thee ? And is it true — 

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 

My very thoughts : in mercy then away, 

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 

My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane." — 

" O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a pain 

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn 

And be a criminal." — " Alas, I burn, 

I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 

Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. 

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, 

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave ; 

But ever since I heedlessly did lave 

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 

Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so, 

And call it love ? Alas ! 't was cruelty. 

Not once more did I close my happy eyes 

Amid the thrush's song. Away ! Avaunt ! 

'twas a cruel thing." — " Now thou dost taunt 
So softly, Arethusa, that I think 

If thou vi^ast playing on my shady brink. 

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid ! 

Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 

Of angry powers : there are deities 

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 

'T is almost death to hear : O let me pour 

A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, 

Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel, 

Sometimes, these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal 

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 

These dreary caverns for the open sky. 

1 will delight thee all my winding course, 
From the green sea up to my hidden source 
About Arcadian forests ; and will show 
The channels where my coolest waters flow 
Through mossy rocks ; where, 'mid exuberant green, 
I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 
Than Saturn in his exile ,- where I brim 
Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim 
Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 
Buzz from their honey'd wings : and thou shouldst 

please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might 
Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. 
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, 
And let us be thus comforted ; unless 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream 
Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam. 
And pour to death along some hungry sands." — 
" What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
Severe before me : persecuting fate ! 
Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late 
A huntress free in" — At this, sudden fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. 
The Latmian Usten'd, but he heard no more, 
Save echo, faint repealing o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
Of that dark gulf he wept, and said : " I urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage. 
If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains ; 
And make them happy in some happy plains." 



He turn'd — there was a whelming sound — ^he stept, 
There was a cooler light ; and so he kept 



Towards it by a sandy path, and lo ! 
More suddenly than doth a moment go. 
The visions of the earth were gone and fled — 
He saw the giant sea above his head. 



BOOK III. 



There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men 
With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen 
Their baaing vanities, to browse away 
The comfortable green and juicy hay 
From human pastures ; or, O torturing fact ! 
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd 
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge 
Of sanctuary splendor, nor a sight 
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight 
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests. 
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, 
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount 
To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, 
Their tip-top nothings, their dull skies, their thrones-^ 
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones 
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabor'd drums. 
And sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this hums, 
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — 
Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, 
And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — 
Are then regalities all gilded masks ? 
No, there are throned seats unscalable 
But by a patient wing, a constant spell. 
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined. 
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind. 
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 
To watch the abysm-birth of elements. 
Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate 
A thousand powers keep rehgious state. 
In water, fiery realm, and airy bourn ; 
And, silent as a consecrated urn, 
Hold spheiy sessions for a season due. 
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! 
Have bared their operations to this globe — 
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 
Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence 
Shakes hand with our own Ceres ; every sense 
Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude. 
As bees gorge full their cells. And by the feud 
'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 
Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 
Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. . 
When thy gold breath is misting in the west, 
She unobserved steals unto her throne. 
And there she sits most meek and most alone ; 
As if she had not pomp subservient ; 
As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ; 
As if the ministering stars kept not apart, 
Waiting for silver-footed messages. 
O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : 
O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 
The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 
549 



18 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, 
Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 
And yet thy benediction passeth not 
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 
Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren 
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, 
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 
Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
Within its pearly house : — The mighty deeps, 
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea ! 
O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, 
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load. 



Cynthia ! where art thou now? What far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail 
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh ? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, 
Or what a thing is love ! 'Tis She, but lo ! 
How changed, how full of ache, how gone in woe ! 
She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness 
Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there 's a stress 
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, 
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
The curly foam with amorous influence. 
O, not so idle ! for down-glancing thence, 
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 
O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out 
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning 
Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd lightning. 
Where will the splendor be content to reach ? 
O love ! how potent hast thou been to teach 
Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty dwells, 
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, 
In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun. 
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. 
Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath ; 
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; 
Thou madest Pluto bear thin element : 
And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent 
A moonbeam to the deep, deep water-world, 
To find Endymion. 



Along his fated way. 

Far had he roam'd. 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd 
Above, around, and at his feet ; save things 
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : 
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large 
Of gone sea-warriors ; brazen beaks and targe ; 
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 
The sway of human hand ; gold vase emboss'd 
With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
But those of Saturn's vintage ; mouldering scrolls. 
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 
Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude 
In ponderous stone, developing the mood 
Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man, 
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan. 
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 
These secrets struck into him ; and imless 
Dian had chased away that heaviness. 
He might have died : but now, with cheered feel. 
He onward kept ; wooing these thoughts to steal 
About the labyrinth in his soul of love. , 



On gold sand impearl'd 
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light 
Against his pallid face : he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood : 'twas very sweet; he stay'd 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, 
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, 
Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. 
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand 
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd 
Into sweet air ; and sober'd morning came 
Meekly through billows :— when like taper-flame 
Left sudden l^ a dallying breath of air. 
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 



" What is there in thee, Moon ! that thou shouldst 
move 
My heart so potently ? When yet a child, 
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. 
Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 
From eve to morn across the firmament. 
No apples would I gather from the ti-ee. 
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously : 
No tumbling water ever spake romance. 
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance : 
No woods were green enough, no bower divine. 
Until thou lifted'st up thine eyelids fine : 
In sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take. 
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 
And, in the summer-tide of blossoming. 
No one but thee ^ath heard me blithely sing 

And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 

No melody was like a passing spright 

If it went not to solemnize thy reign. 

Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 

By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end ; 

And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend 

With all my ardors : thou wast the deep glen ; 

Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — 

The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun ; 

Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; 

Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed— 

My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed : — 

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! 

O what a wild and harmonized tune 

My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 

On some bright essence could I lean, and lull 

Myself to immortality : I prest 

Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 

But, gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 

My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 

She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — 

Yet not entirely ; no, thy starry sway 

Has been an under-passion to this hour. 

Now I begin to feel thine orby power 
550 



ENDYMION. 



19 



Is coming fresh upon me : O be kind ! 

Keep back thine influence, and do not Wind 

My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive 

That I can think away from thee and hve! — 

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries ! 

How far beyond ! " At this a surprised start 

Frosted the springing verdure of his heart ; 

For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 

How his own goddess was past all things fair, 

He saw far in the concave green of the sea 

An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, 

And his white hair was awful, and a mat 

Of weeds was cold beneath his cold thin feet ; 

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 

A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, 

O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans 

Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form ' 

Was woven in with black distinctness : storm. 

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 

Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape 

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape, 

The gulfing whale was like a dot in the spell, 

Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell 

To its huge self; and the minutest fish 

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish. 

And show his little eye's anatomy. 

Then there was pictured the regality 

Of Neptune ; and the sea-nymphs round his state, 

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, 

And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd 

So stedfastly, that the new denizen 

Had time to keep him in amazed ken, 

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. 

The old man raised his hoary head and saw 
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see, 
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 
He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white brows 
Went arching up, and like two magic plows 
Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large. 
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, 
Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. 
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 
Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage. 
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 
Eased in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, 
Even to the trees. He rose : he grasp'd his stole. 
With convulsed clenches waving it abroad. 
And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 
Echo into obUvion, he said : — 



" Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow : now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. 
O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young! 
O shell-born Neptune, I am pierced and stung 
With new-bom Ufe ! What shall I do ? Where go, 
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ?— - 
I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen 
Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten j 
Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, 
That writhes about the roots of Sicily : 



To northern seas I '11 in a twinkling sail, 

And mount upon the snortings of a whale 

To some black cloud ; thence down I '11 madly sweep 

On forked lightning, to the deepest deep. 

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd 

With rapture to the other side of the world ! 

O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 

I bow full-hearted to your old decree ! 

Yes, every God be thank'd, and power benign, 

For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. 

Thou art the man ! " Endymion started back 

Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack 

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 

Mutter'd : " What lonely death am I to die 

In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze. 

And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 

Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 

And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 

Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw. 

And keep me as a chosen food to draw 

His magian fish through hated fire and flame ? 

misery of hell ! resistless, tame, 

Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shout, 

Until the Gods through heaven's blue look out I — 

Tartarus ! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves : 
Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves 
Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop. 
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop 
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love ! love, farewell! 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 
Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind 
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind 

1 see thy streaming hair ! and now, by Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man!" 

He spake, and walking to that aged form, 
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm 
With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature wept. 
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought. 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears. 
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 
About his large dark locks, and faltering spake : 

" Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake J 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
Into mine own : for why ? thou openest 
The prison-gates that have so long opprest 
My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, 
Thou art comraission'd to this fated spot 
For great enfranchisement. O weep no more ; 
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 
Ay, hadst thou never loved an unknown power, 
I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
But even now most miserable old, 
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 
Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case 
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays 
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, 
For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, 
551 



20 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now as we speed towards our joyous task." 

So saying, this young soul in age's mask 
Went forward with the Carian side by side : 
Resuming quickly thus ; while ocean's tide 
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewell'd sands 
Took silently their foot-prints. 

" My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality, 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main, 
And my boat danced in every creek and bay ; 
Rough billows were my home by night and day, — 
The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 
No housing from the storm and tempests mad. 
But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : 
Long years of misery have told me so. 
Ay, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
To look so plainly through them ? to dispel 
A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? 
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep. 
And one's own image from the bottom peep? 
Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
My long captivity and moanings all 
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 
The which I breathe away, and thronging come 
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. 

" I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars. 
And craggy isles, and sea-mews' plaintive cry 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen 
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, 
Nor be my desolation ; and, full oft. 
When a dread water-spout had rear'd aloft 
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe 
My life away like a vast sponge of fate. 
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state. 
Has dived to its foundations, gulf 'd it down. 
And left me tossing safely. But the crown 
Of all my life was utmost quietude : 
More did I love to lie in cavern rude, 
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, 
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice ! 
There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer 
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep. 
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep : 
And never was a day of summer shine. 
But I beheld its birth upon the brine ; 
For I would watch all night to see unfold 
Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morning gold 
Wide o'er the swelling streams : and constantly 
At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, 
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 
The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 
With daily boon of fish most dehcate : 
They knew not whence this bounty, and elate 



Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. 

" Why was I not contented ? Wherefore reach 
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian ! 
Had been my dreary death ! Fool ! I began 
To feel distemper'd longings : to desire 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Couid grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremest fit 
I plunged for life or death. To interknit 
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt. 
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt 
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; 
Forgetful utterly of self-intent ; 
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 
Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth show 
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 
I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 
'T was freedom ! and at once I visited 
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 
No need to tell thee of them, for I see 
That thou hast been a witness — it must be 
For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, 
By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 
So I will in my story straightway pass 
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 
That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla fair ! 
Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 
To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger-youth ! 
I loved her to the very white of truth, 
And she would not conceive it. Timid thing ! 
She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing. 
Round every isle, and point, and promontory. 
From where large Hercules wound up his story 
Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 
The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 
Gleam dehcately through the azure clear: 
Until 't was too fierce agony to bear ; 
And in that agony, across my grief 
It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief- 
Cruel enchantress ! So above the water 
I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. 
^aea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 
It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 
Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

" When I awoke, 't was in a twilight bower ; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees. 
Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. 
How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a lyre, 
And over it a sighing voice expire. 
It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon 
The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove ! 
With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove 
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all 
The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall 
The dew of her rich speech : " Ah ! art awake ? 

let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 

1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have shed 
An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead ; 
And now I find thee Uving, I will pour 

From these devoted eyes their silver store, 
552 



ENDYMION. 



21 



Until exhausted of the latest drop, 
So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop 
Here, that I too may live : but if beyond 
Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond 
Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 
If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 
If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardor mute, 
Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, 

let me pluck it for thee." Thus she link'd 
Her charming syllables, till indistinct 
Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul ; 
And then she hover'd over me, and stole 

So near, that if no nearer it had been 
This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 

" Young man of Latmos ! thus particular 
Am I, that thou mayst plainly see how far 
This fierce temptation went : and thou mayst not 
Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot ? 

" Who could resist ? Who in this universe ? 
She did so breathe ambrosia >• so immerse 
My fine existence in a golden clime. 
She took me like a child of suckling time. 
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd. 
The current of my former life was slemm'd, 
And to this arbitrary queen of sense 

1 bow'd a tranced vassal : nor would thence 

Have moved, even though Amphion's heart had woo'd 

Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 

For as Apollo each eve doth devise 

A new apparelling for western skies ; 

So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 

Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. 

And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; , 

Could wander in the mazy forest-house 

Of squirrels, foxes sly, and antler'd deer. 

And birds from coverts innermost and drear 

Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — 

To me new-born delights ! 

" Now let me borrow, 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell 
How specious heaven was changed to real hell. 

" One morn she left me sleeping : half awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake 
My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts ; 
But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 
Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, 
That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. 
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom, 
Damp awe assail'd me ; for there 'gan to boom 
A sound of moan, an agony of sound. 
Sepulchral from the distance all around. 
Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled 
That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled 
Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd, 
I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swell'd 
Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, 
The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue. 
That glared before me through a thorny brake. 
This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 
3U 



Bewitch'd me towards ; and I soon was near 
A sight too fearful for the leel of fear ; 
In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 
The banquet of my arms, my arbor queen. 
Seated upon an uptorn forest root ; 
And all around her shapes, wizard and brute. 
Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting. 
Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting ! 

such deformities ! Old Charon's self. 
Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 
And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 
It could not be so fantasied. Fierce, wan, 
And tyrannizing was the lady's look, 

As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 

Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out, 

And from a basket emptied to the rout 

Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick 

And roar'd for more ; with many a liungry lick 

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow. 

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe. 

And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling phial : 

Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial 

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 

She lifted up the charm : appealing groans 

From their poor breasts went suing to her ear 

In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier. 

She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. 

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, 

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. 

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage ; 

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 

And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat : 

Then was appalling silence : then a sight 

More wildering than all that hoarse affright ; 

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, 

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish'd. 

Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banish'd 

These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the dark 

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, 

With dancing and loud revelry, and went 

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 

Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd 

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 

In human accent : ' Potent goddess ! chief 

Of pains resistless ! make my being brief, 

Or let me from this heavy prison fly : 

Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 

1 sue not for my happy crown again ; 

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; 

I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife : 

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 

I will forget them ; I will pass these joys ; 

Ask naught so heavenward, so too — too high : 

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 

Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, 

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh. 

And merely given to the cold bleak air. 

Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!* 



"That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing : truth had come 
Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
I saw a fury whetting a death-dart ; 
553 



22 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, 

Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 

Think, my deliverer, how desolate 

My waking must have been ! disgust, and hate, 

And terrors manifold divided me 

A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 

Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 

I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood 

Glaring the angry witch, O Dis, even now, 

A clammy dew is be&ding on my brow, 

At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. 

' Ha ! ha ! Sir Dainty ! there must be a nurse 

Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, express, 

To cradle thee, my sweet, and lull thee : yes, 

I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch : 

My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 

So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 

Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries 

Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 

Oh, no, — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine 

More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; 

And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! 

Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not hurt 

One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh, 

That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 

And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 

Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, 

Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 

And speak a blessing : Mark me ! Thou hast thews 

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : 

But such a love is mine, that here I chase 

Eternally away from thee all bloom 

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. ' 

Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast ; 

And there, ere many days be overpast. 

Disabled age shall seize thee ; and even then 

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 

Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath 

Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 

Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! ' — As shot stars fall, 

She fled ere I could groan for merc^. Stung 

And poison'd was my spirit : despair sung 

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 

A hand was at my shoulder to compel 

My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes 

Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise 

Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 

I found me ; by my fresh, my native home, 

Its tempering coolness, lo my life akin. 

Came salutary as I waded in ; 

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 

Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave 

Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd 

Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. 



" Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite 
With dry cheek who can tell ? While thus my might 
Proving upon this element, dismay'd. 
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; 
I look'd — 'twas Scylla ! Cursed, cursed Circe! 
O vulture- witch, hast never heard of mercy ! 
Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, 
But thou must nip this tender innocent 



Because I loved her ? — Cold, O cold indeed 
Were her fair limbs, and hke a common weed 
The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was 
I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, 
Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 
Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. 
Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl 
Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold ! 
'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; 
And all around — But wherefore this to thee 
Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see ? — • 
I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 
My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread 
Met palsy half-way : soon these limbs became 
Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. 

Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space. 
Without one hope, without one faintest trace 
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
Of color'd fantasy ; for I fear 'twould trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reaspn ; and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

" On a day, 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow op from the horizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resumed in spite of hindering force — 
So vanish'd : and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. 
Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen, 
But could not : therefore all the billows green 
Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. 
The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds 
In perilous bustle ; while upon the deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck; 
The final gulfing ; the poor struggling souls : 
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. 

they had all been saved but crazed eld 
AnnuU'd my vigorous cravings : and thus quell'd 
And curb'd, think on 't, O Latmian ! did I sit 
Writhing with pity, and &, cursing fit 

Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, 

By one and one, to pale oblivion ; 

And I was gazing on the surges prone. 

With many a scalding tear and many a groan, 

When at my feet emerged an old man's hand. 

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 

1 knelt with pain — reach'd out my hand — had grasp'd 
These treasures — touch'd the knuckles — they un* 

clasp'd — 
I caught a finger : but the downward weight 
O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan abate 
The storm, and through chill anguish, gloom outburst 
The comfortable sun. I was athirst 
To search the book, and in the warming air 
Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on 
My soul page after page, till well-nigh won 
Into forgetfulness ; when, stupefied, 
I read these words, and read again, and tried 
My eyes against the heavens, and read again 
O what a load of misery and pain 

554 



ENDYMIOlNi 



23 



Each Atlas-line bore off! — a shine of hope 
Came gold around me, cheering me to cope 
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an end. 

" ' In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 
Doom'd with enfeebled carcass to outstretch 
His lothed existence through ten centuries, 
And then to die alone, who can devise 
A total opposition ? No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebb and flow, 
And he oppress'd. Yet he shall not die, 
These things accomplish'd : — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds ; 
If he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, 
He must pursue this task of joy and grief. 
Most piously ; — all lovers tempest- tost. 
And in the savage overwhelming lost, 
He shall deposit side by side, until 
Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : 
Which done, and all these labors ripened, 
A youth, by heavenly power beloved and led, 
Shall stand before him ; whom he shall direct 
How to consummate all. The youth elect 
Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd.' " — 



" Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, 
" We are twin brothers in this destiny !. 
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
What ! if from thee my wandering feet had swerved. 
Had we both perish'd ?" — " Look ! " the sage replied, 
" Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide. 
Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice 
I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies ; 
And where I have enshrined piously 
All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die 
Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on 
They went till unbbscured the porches shone ; 
Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. 
Sure never since king Neptune held his state 
Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. 
Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars 
Has legion'd all his battle ; and behold 
How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 
His even breast : see, many steeled squares. 
And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares 
One step ? Imagine further, line by line. 
These warrior thousands on the field supine : — 
So in that crystal place, in silent rows. 
Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. — 
The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced 
Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed ; 
Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 
All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips. 
He mark'd their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair 
Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; 
And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, 
Put crosswise to its heart. 



" Let us commence 
(Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy) eVen now.' 
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, 



Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, 
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. 
He tore it into pieces small as snow- 
That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow ; 
And having done it, took his dark-blue cloak 
And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
His wand against the empty air times nine. — 
" What more there is to do, young man, is thine : 
But first a little patience ; first undo 
This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; 
And shouldst thou break it— What, is it done so Clean ? 
A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave ! 
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 
Here is a shell ; 'tis pearly blank to me. 
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's sake ! 
Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, break 
This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 

'T was done : and straight with sudden swell and 
fall 
Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sigh'd 
A lullaby to silence. — " Youth! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing through 
Those files of dead, scatter the same around. 
And thou wilt see the issue." — 'Mid the sound, 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, 
And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. 
How lightning-swift the change ! a youthful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem. 
Out-sparkling sudden Uke an upturn'd gem, 
Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, 
Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force 
Press'd its cold hand, and wept,— and Scylla sigh'd ! 
Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — 
The nymph arose : he left them to their joy. 
And onward went upon his high employ, 
Showering those pow^erful fragments on the dead, 
And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head. 
As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 
Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much: 
Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 
The Latmian persevered along, and thus 
All were reanimated. There arose 
A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 
Of gladness in the air — while many, who 
Had died in mutual arms devout and true. 
Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest 
Felt a high certainty of being blest. 
They gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment 
Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. 
Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers. 
Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full show- 
ers 
Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine 
The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 
Of happiness, fron(i fairy-press oozed out. 
Speechless they eyed each other, and about 
The fair assembly wander'd to and fro. 
Distracted with the richest overflow 
Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. 

" Away ! " 

Shouted the new-bom god ; " Follow, and pay 
Our piety to Neptunus supreme ! " — 
Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, 
555 



24 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They led on fii-st, bent to her meek surprise, 
Through porial columns of a giant size 
Into the vaulled, boundless emerald. 
Joyous all Ibllow'd, as the leader call'd, 
Down marble sleps ; pouring as easily 
As hour-glass sand, — and fast, as you might see 
Swallows obeying the south summer's call, 
Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus went that beautiful multitude, not far,, 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, 
Just within ken, they saw descending thick 
Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, 
And of those numbers every eye was wet ; 
For each their old love found. A murmuring rose. 
Like what was never heard in all the throes 
Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit 
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. 

This mighty consummation made, the host 
Moved on for many a league ; and gain'd, and lost 
Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelling in array. 
And from the rear diminishing away, — 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, 
" Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! 
God Neptune's palace ! " With noise increased, 
They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward ; still the splendor gradual swell'd. 
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank ; and deeper drank more near : 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd. 
Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 

As large, as* bright, as color'd as the bow 
Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its march. 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate. 
To which the leaders sped ; but not half raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 
And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze. 
And then, behold ! large Neptune on his throne 
Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone ; 
At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast, 
So wide was Neptune's hall ; and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent. 
Awed from the throne aloof; — and when stQrra-rent 



Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air ; 
But soothed as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, 
Noiseless, submarine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and north, 
A light as of four sunset.s, blazing forth 
A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 
Of fealher'd Indian darts about, as through 
The delicatest air : air verily, 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, 
Globing a golden sphere. 

. They stood in dreams 
Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
The Nereids danced ; the Syrens faintly sang ; 
And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. 
Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 
On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; 
And when they reach'd the throned eminence 
She kist the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her down 
A toying with the doves. Then, — " Mighty .crown 
And sceptre of this kingdom ! " Venus said, 
" Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid : 
Behold ! " — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 
From the God's large eyes ; he smiled delectable, 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
" Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the bands 
Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet 
Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? 
A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long. 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 
Where these are new and strange, are ominous. 
Ay, I have seen these signs in one of heaven. 
When others were all blind ; and were I given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words ; bilt Love will have his day. 
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon. 
Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, 
Visit my Cytherea : thou wilt find 
Cupid well-naitured, my Adonis kind ; 
And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have done, 
All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! " — 
Thus the fair goddess : while Endymion 
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 
In courteous fountains to all cups out-reach'd ; 
And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, bleach'd 
New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; 
The which, in entangling for their fire, 
Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 
For dainty toy. Cupid, empire-sure, 
Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song. 
And garlanding grew wild ; and pleasure reign'd. 
In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, 
556 



ENDYMION. 



25 



And strove who should be smother'd deepest m 
Fresh crush of leaves. 

O 'tis a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. O do not curse, 
High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending 
Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; 
And then a hymn. , 

" King of the stormy sea ! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements! Eternally before 
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, 
At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 
Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 
All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home 
Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. 
Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe 
Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the grulF complaint 
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint 
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team 
Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 
To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
Apollo singeth, while his chariot 
Waits at the doors of Heaven. Thou art not 
For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 
And it hath furrow'd that large front : yet now, 
As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 
To blend and interknit 
Subdued majesty with this glad time. 
O shell-borne King sublime ! 
We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 
We sing, and we adore ! 

" Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; 
Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O vain ! 
Not flowers budding in an April rain. 
Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, — 
No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, 
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
Of goddess Cytherea ! 

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes 
On our soul's sacrifice. 



" Bright-wing'd Child ! 
Who has another care when thou hast smiled ? 
Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 
All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast 
Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. 
O sweetest essence ! sweetest of all minions ! 
6od of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, 
And panting bosoms bare ! 
Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser 
Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 
Thy venom 'd goblet will we quaff until 
We fill— we fill! 
And by thy Mother's hps " 

Was heard no more 
For clamor, when the golden palace-door 



Open'd again, and from without, in shone 
A new magnificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old. 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold. 
Before he went into his quiet cave 
To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse- 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 
His fingers went across it — All were mute 
To gaze on Amphritite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
"01 shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! 
Where is my lovely mistress ? Well-away ! 
I die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing — " 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
To usher back his spirit into life : 
But still he slept. At last they interwove 
Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo ! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, 
To his inward senses these words spake aloud ; 
Written in starlight on the dark above : 
" Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 
How have 1 dwelt in fear of fate : 'tis done — 
Immortal bliss for jne too hast thou won. 
Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch 
Her ready eggs, before I '11 kissing snatch 
Thee into endless heaven. Awake ! awake ! " 

The youth at once arose : a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green. 
Cooler than all the wonder he had seen, 
Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. 
How happy once again in grassy nest ! 



BOOK IV. 



Muse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 
O first-born on the mountains ! by the hues 
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot : 
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot. 
While yet our England was a wolfish den ; 
Before our forests heard the talk of men ; 
Before the first of Druids was a child; — 
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild. 
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood : — 
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, 
Apollo's garland : — ^yet didst thou divine 
Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain, 
"Come hither. Sister of the Island!" Plain 
Spake fair Ausonia ; and once more she spake 
A higher summons : — still didst thou betake 
657 



26 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tliee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won 
A full accomplishment ! The thing is done. 
Which undone, these our latter days had risen 
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison, 
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 
Our spirit's wings : despondency besets 
Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn 
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 
Long have I said, How happy he who shrives 
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone, 
And could not pray : — nor can I now — so on 
I move to the end in lowliness of heart. 

" Ah, woe is me ! that I should fondly part 
From my dear native land ! Ah, foolish maid ! 
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade 
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields ! 
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields 
A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour : 
Yet I would have, great gods ! but one short hour 
Of native air — let me but die at home." 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, 
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows 
His head through thorny-green entanglement 
Of underwood, and to the sound is beiit. 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

" Is no one near to help me ? No fair dawn 
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying 
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing ? 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so sweet 
That I may worship them ? No eyelids meet 
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 
Redemption sparkles ! — I am sad and lost." 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air, 
Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only bear 
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms ! Is Phoebe passionless ? 
Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store, 
Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 
For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them ? Feelest not a kindred pain. 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to perch 
Dove-like in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids ?— Hist ! 

" O for Hermes' wand, 
To touch this flower into human shape ! 
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling down 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown ! 
Ah me, how I could love I — My soul doth melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have felt 
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender, 
That but for tears my life had fled away ! — 
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day. 



And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew- 
But in the eye of love : there 's not a sound. 
Melodious howsoever, can confound 
The heavens and earth in one to such a death 
As doth the voice of love : there 's not a breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart!"— 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
Thirst for another love : O impious. 
That he can even dream upon it thus ! — 
Thought he, "Why am I not as are the dead, 
Since to a woe like this I have been led 
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea? 
Goddess! I love .thee not the less: from thee 
By Juno's smile 1 turn not — no, no, no — 
While the great waters are at ebb and flow. — 
I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 
For both, for both my love is so immense, 
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them." 

And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 
He sprang from his green covert : there she lay. 
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay ; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries : 
" Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive me that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 

Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest thief! 
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel 
Loving and hatred, misery and weal, 

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me. 
And all my story that much passion slew me: 
Do smile upon the evening of my days : 
And, for my tortured brain begins to craze. 
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand 
How dying I shall kiss thy lily hand. — 
Dost weep for me ? Then should I be content. 
Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 
Out-blackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth 
Crumbles into itself By the cloud girth 
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 
To meet oblivion." — As her heart would burst 
The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied : 
" Why must such desolation betide 
As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks 
Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder thrush. 
Schooling its half-fledged little ones to brush 
About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — ^. 

Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails 
Will slime the rose to-night. Though if thou wilt, 
Methinks 't would be a guilt — a very guilt — 
Not to companion thee, and sigh away 
The light — the dusk — the dark — till break of day!" 
" Dear lady," said Endymion, " 'tis past : 
I love thee ! and my days can never last. 
That I may pass in patience, still speak: 
Let me have music dying, and I seek 
558 



ENDYMION. 



27 



No more delight — I bid adieu to all. 

Didst thou not after other climates call, 

And murmur about Indian streams ? "—Then she, 

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, 

For pity sang this roundelay 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health from vermeil lips ?— 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes ? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ?— 

To give the glow-worm light ? 

Or, on a moonless night, 
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourmng tongue ? — 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale. 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among ? 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? — 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head, 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day— 

Nor any drooping flower 

Held sacred for thy bower, 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

" To Sorrow 

I bade good morrow. 
And thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerly, cheerly. 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind : 

I would deceive her, 

And so leave her. 
But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 



" Beneath my palm-trees, by the river-side, 
I sat a- wee ping : in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me why I wept, — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 

" Beneath my palm-trees, by the river-side, 
I sat a-weeping : what enamor'd bride. 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 

But hides and shrouds 
Beneath dark palm-trees by a river-side ? 

"And as I sat, over the light-blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 

'T was Bacchus and his crew I 
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 



From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 

'Twas Bacchus and his kin! 
Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
All madly dancing through the pleasant valley. 

To scare thee, Melancholy ! 
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name ! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when in June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 

I rush'd into the folly ! 

Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For Venus' pearly bite ; 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quaffing. 

" Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye, 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? 
• We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill betide. 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide :— 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our wild minstrelsy ! ' 

" Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye, 

So many, and so many, and such glee ? 

Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
' For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree : 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 

And cold mushrooms ; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth !— 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our mad minstrelsy ! ' 

"Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and dance. 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance. 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, 
Plump infant laughters mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout gal ley -rowers' toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 

Nor care for wind and tide. 

" Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 
From rear to van they scour about the plains ; 
A three days' journey in a moment done ; 
And always, at the rising of the sun. 
About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
On spleenful imicorn. 

" 1 saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine- wreath crown. 
559 



28 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



1 saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce ! 
The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 

And all his priesthood moans, 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
Into these regions came I, following him, 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear, 

Alone, without a peer : 
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

" Young stranger ! 

I 've been a ranger 
In search of pleasure throughout every clime ; 

Alas! 'tis not for me : 

Bewitch'd I sure must be, 
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

" Come then, Sorrow, 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 

I thought to leave thee, 

And deceive thee, 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

" There is not one, 

No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 

Thou art her mother. 

And her brother, 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." 

O what a sight she gave in finishing, 
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing ! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her : 
And listen'd to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily. 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remember'd from its velvet summer song. 
At last he said : " Poor lady, how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice ? 
Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice; 
I must be thy sad servant evermore : 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no ! 
Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be so ? 
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think ? 

thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection ! make my watchful care 
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair ! 
Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 

1 'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 
O let it blush so ever : let it soothe 

My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. 

This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is; 

And this is sure thine other softling — this 

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near! 

Wilt fall asleep ? O let me sip that tear ! 

And whisper one sweet word that I may know 

This is the world — sweet dewy blossom ! " — ^Woe I 



Woe! woe to that Endymion! Where is he? — 
Even these words went echoing dismally 
Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone. 
Like one repenting in his latest moan ; 
And while it died away a shade pass'd by. 
As of a thunder-cloud. When arrows fly 
Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek 

forth 
Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both 
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 
Waiting for some destruction— when lo ! 
Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime 
Beyond the tall tree-tops ; and in less time 
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt 
Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor stopt 
One moment from his home : only the sward 
He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward 
Swifter than sight was gone — even before 
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
Above the crystal circlings white and clear ; 
And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise. 
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise — 
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, 
Each with large dark-blue wings upon his back. 
The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew. 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew 
Exhaled to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone. 
Far from the earth away — unseen, alone. 
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above their heads, and follow them untired. 
Muse of my native land ! am I inspired ? 
This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread 
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance 
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful freight 
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?— 
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and behold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold 
Snuflf at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, 
Dying to embers from their native fire ! 



I 



I 



There curl'd a purple mist around them ; soon. 
It seem'd as when around the pale new moon 
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow: 
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. 
For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born 
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn 
Had he left more forlorn ; for the first time. 
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime — 
Because into his depth Cimmerian 
There came a dream, showing how a young man. 
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin. 
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win 
An immortality, and how espouse 
Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house. 
Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate. 
That he might at the threshold one hour wait 
To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 
560 



ENDYMION. 



29 



His litter of smooth semilucent mist, 
Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst, 
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought; 
And scarcely for one moment could be caught 
His sluggish form reposing motionless. 
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress 
Of vision search'd for him, as one would look 
Athwart the sallows of a river nook 
To catch a glance at silver-throated eels, — 
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals 
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, 
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale, 
Descry a favorite hamlet faint and far. 

These raven horses, though they foster'd are 
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 
Their fuU-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop ; 
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid-air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting; and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! he walks 
On heaven's pavement ; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain : 
He tries the nerve of Phcebus' golden bow, 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt : arch Hebe brings 
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
And tantalizes long ; at last he drinks. 
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, 
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand, 
He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 
Are visible above : the Seasons four, — 
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store 
In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar. 
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, 
In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
To sway their floating morris. " Whose is this ? 
Whose bugle ?" he inquires; they smile — "O Dis! 
Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou not know 
Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'Tis Dian's : lo ! 
She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she. 
His very goddess ; good-bye earth, and sea. 
And air, and pains, and care, and suflfering ; 
Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he spring 
Towards her, and awakes-^and, strange, o'erhead, 
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred. 
Beheld awake his very dream ; the Gods 
Stood smiling ; merry Hebe laughs and nods ; 
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. 
O stale perplexing ! On the pinion bed. 
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 
Of his delicious lady. He who died 
For soaring too audacious in the sun. 
Where that same treacherous wax began to run, 
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 
To that fair-shadow'd passion pulsed its way — 
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well-a-day! 
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow. 
He could not help but kiss her : then he grew 
3V 



Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 

Young Phoebe's, golden-hair'd ; and so 'gan crave 

Forgiveness ; yet he turn'd once more to look 

At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, — 

She press'd his hand in slumber ; so once more 

He could not help but kiss her and adore. 

At this the shadow wept, melting away. 

The Latmian started up ; " Bright goddess, stay I 

Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue, 

I have no daedal heart : why is it wrung 

To desperation ? Is there naught for me,' 

Upon the bourn of bliss, but misery ?" 



These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses: 
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses 
With 'havior soft. Sleep yawn'd from underneath. 
" Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe 
This murky phantasm ! thou contented seem'st 
Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
What horrors may discomfort thee and me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery 1 — 
Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 
Hath no revenge in it ; as it is whole 
In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! 
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
Even when I feel as true as innocence ? 
I do, I do. — What is this soul then ? Whence 
Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 
Have no self-passion or identity. 
Some fearful end must be ; where, where is it ? 
By Nemesis ! I see my spirit flit 
Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet ! 
Shall we away ? " He roused the steeds ; they beat 
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, 
Leaving old Sleep within his vapory lair. 

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow. 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, 
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof. 
So witless of their doom,, that verily 
'Tis well-nigh past man's search their hearts to see; 
Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved, or toy'd — 
Most like with joy gone mad, with .sorrow cloy'd. 



Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, 
The moon put forth a little diamond peak. 
No bigger than an unobserved star. 
Or tiny point of fairy scimitar ; 
Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 
She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. 
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled 
While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd 
This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair ! 
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist; 
It melted from his grasp ; her hand he kiss'd, 
1 And, horror ! kiss'd his own — ^he was alone. 
561 



30 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then 
Dropt hawkwise to the earth. 

There lies a den, 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart : 
And in these regions many a venom'd dart 
At random flies ; they are the proper home 
Of every ill : the man is yet to come 
Who hath not journey'd in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt how calm and well 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear 
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier 
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who strive therefor : on the sudden it is won. 
Just when the sufferer begins to bum. 
Then it is free to him ; and from an urn, 
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaft 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the bloom 
Of health by due ; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
O happy spirit-home ! wondrous soul ! 
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian ! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began. 
Hast thou felt so content : a grievous feud 
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne 
With dangerous speed : and so he did not mourn 
Because he knew not whither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. 
They stung the feather'd horse ; with fierce alarm 
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas ! no charm 
Could lift Endyraion's head, or he had view'd 
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
And silvery was its passing : voices sweet 
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, 
While past the vision went in bright array. 

" Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, who away would be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
Not Hesperus : lo ! upon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings, 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily I — 
Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ! 
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daf&dil, 
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 



I 



Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines. 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ; 
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
All gather'd in the dewy morning : hie 

A way ! fly, fly ! — 
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings. 
Two fan-like fountains, — thine illuminings 

For Dian play : 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
Show cold through watery pinions; make more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night : 

Haste, haste away ! 
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
A third is in the race 1 who is the third. 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 

The ramping Centaur! 
The Lion's mane 's on end : the Bear how fierce ! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
Into the blue of heaven. He '11 be shent, 

Pale unrelentor, 
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a-playing. — • 
Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars ? come hither ! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither 

They all are going. 
Danee's Son, before Jove newly bow'd. 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall : 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 
By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! — " 

More 
Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore, 
Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. 
" Alas ! " said he, " were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn 
A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering ; to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim, 
Sorrow is but a shadow : now I see 
The grass ; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where 1 — who ? who 
Lefl thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are ; 
Let us aye love each other ; let us fare 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below. 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny! 
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly. 
But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt too ? By thee will I sit 
For ever : let our fate stop here — a kid 
I on this spot will offer : Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
562 



ENDYMION. 



31 



To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 

Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have been 

Presumptuous against love, against the sky, 

Against all elen'ents, against the tie 

Of mortals each to each, against the blooms 

Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 

Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 

Has my own soul conspired : so my story 

Will I to children utter, and repent. 

There never lived a mortal man, who bent 

His appetite beyond his natural sphere, 

But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, 

Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell ! 

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 

Of visionary seas ! No, never more 

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 

Adieu, my daintiest Dream ! although so vast 

My love is still for thee. The hour may come 

When we shall meet in pure elysium. 

On earth I may not love thee ; and therefore 

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 

All through the teeming year : so thou wilt shine. 

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine. 

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss ! 

My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 

One sigh of real breath — one gentle squeeze. 

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees. 

And warm with dews that ooze from living blood ! 

Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that? — all good 

We'll talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now, 

Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the brow 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none 

And where dark yew-trees, as we rustle through. 

Will drop their scarle^berry cups of dew ? 

thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ! 
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace 
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined : 
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, 
And by another, in deep dell below, 

See, through the trees, a little river go 
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 
Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring, 
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — 
Cresses that grow where no man may them see, 
And sorrel untom by the dew-claw'd stag : 
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag. 
That thou mayst always know whither I roam, 
When it shall please thee in our quiet home 
To listen and think of love. Still let me speak ; 
Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 
For yet the past doth prison me. The rill. 
Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 
With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn, 
And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's bam. 
Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, 
And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. 
Its sides I '11 plant with dew-sweet eglantine, 
And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 

1 will entice this crystal rill to trace 
Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. 
I '11 kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 
And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 

To Empress Dian, for a hunting-spear ; 
To Vesper, for a taper, silver-clear, 



That I may see thy beauty through the night ; 
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 
Tame on thy finger ; to the River-gods, 
And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods 
Of gold, and lines of Naiad's long bright tress. 
Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness ! 
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 
'Fore which I '11 bend, bending, dear love, to thee : 
Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak 
Laws to my footsteps, color to my cheek. 
Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice. 
And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice : 
And that affectionate light, those diamond things. 
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl 

springs. 
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. 
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seizure ? 
O that I could not doubt ? " 



The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear 
His brier'd path to some tranquillity. 
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye. 
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow ; 
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow 
Beam'd upward from the valleys of the east : 
" O that the flutter of this heart had ceased. 
Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away ! 
Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift decay 
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth : 
And I do think that at my very birth 
I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly ; 
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, 
With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. 
Art thou not cruel ? Ever have I striven 
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
Favor from thee, and so I kisses gave 
To the void air, bidding them find out love : 
But when I came to feel how far above 
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. 
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good. 
Was the warm tremble of a deVout kiss, — i 

Even then, that moment, at the thought of this, 
Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers. 
And languish'd there three days. Ye milder powers 
Am I not cruelly wrong'd ? Believe, believe 
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
With my own fancies garlands of sweet life, 
Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife ! 
I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — 
Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chidden. 
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. 
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went : henceforth 
Ask me no more ! I may not utter it. 
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit 
Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die ; 
We might embrace and die : voluptuous thought 
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught 
In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 
No. no, that shall not be: thee will I bless, 
And bid a long adieu." 



The Carian 
No word retum'd . both lovelorn, silent, wan, 
563 



32 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Into the valleys green together went. 
Far wandering they were perforce content 
To sit beneath a fair, lone beechen tree ; 
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere long, 
And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided me ? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 
Has been thy meed for many thousand years; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of teai"s, 
Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester ; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse 
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through the old gaiden-ground of boyish days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant 
A crescent he had carved, and round it spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swoll'n and green'd the pious charactery, 
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope 
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope ; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd ; 
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin, 
Fly in the air where his had never been — 
And yet he knew it not. 

O treachery ! 
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
With all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister, sure ! 
Peona of the woods ! Can she endure — 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face ; 
It is no treachery. 

" Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so ! Why shouldst thou pine 
When all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly ; 
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. 
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. 
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. 
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
The flowers of autumn for your coronals. 
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls ; 
And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame, 
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad : 
O feel as if it were a common day ; 
Free-voiced as one who never was away. 



No tongue shall ask, whence come ye ? but ye shall 
Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
Into the hours that have pass'd us by. 
Since in my arbor I did sing to thee. 
O Hermes ! on this very night will be 
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; 
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 
Good visions in the air, — whence will befall. 
As say these sages, health perpetual 
To shepherds and their flocks ; and furthermore. 
In Dian's face they read the gentle lore : 
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 
Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. 
Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 
And many, even now, their foreheads shade 
With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 
New singing for our maids shalt thou devise. 
And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows. 
Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 
This wayward brother to his rightful joys ! 
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise 
His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, 
To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 
What ails thee ?" He could bear no more, and so 
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow. 
And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said : 
" I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid ! 
My only visitor ! not ignorant though, 
That those deceptions which for pleasure go 
'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be : 
But there are higher ones I may not see, 
If impiously an earthly realm I take. 
Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 
Night after night, and day by day, until 
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 
Let it content thee. Sister, seeing me 
More happy than betides mortality. 
A hermit young, I '11 live in mossy cave, 
Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave 
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 
Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well , 
For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 
And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 
With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 
Peona, mayst return to me. I own 
This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl, 
Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 
Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair ! 
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 
This sister's love with me ? " Like one resign'd 
And bent by circumstances, and thereby blind 
In seltcommitment, thus that meek unknown : 
" Ay, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, 
Of jubilee to Dian : — truth I heard ! 
Well then, I see there is no little bird, 
Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 
Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware, 
Behold I find it! so exalted too! 
So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 
There was a place untenanted in it ; 
In that same void white Chastity shall sit, 
And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 
With sanest lips I vow me to the number 
Of Dian's sisterhood ; and, kind lady. 
With thy good help, this very night shall see 
564 



ENDYMION. 



33 



My future days to her fane consecrate." 

As feels a dreamer what doth most create 
His own particular fright, so these three felt : 
Or like one, who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Tow'rds common thoughts and things for very fear ; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no, 
That housewives talk of But the spirit-blow 
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last 
Endymion said : " Are not our fates all cast ? 
Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender pair' 
Adieu I" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, 
Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot 
His eyes went after them, until they got 
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, 
In one swift moment, would what then he saw 
Ingulf for ever. " Stay ! " he cried, " ah, stay ! 
Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to say : 
Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 
It is a thing I dote on : so I 'd fain, 
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, 
Into those holy groves that silent are 
Behind great Dian's temple. I '11 be yon. 
At vesper's earliest twinkle — they are gone — 
But once, once, once again — " At this he press'd 
His hands against his face, and then did rest 
His head upon a mossy hillock green, 
And so remain'd as he a corpse had been 
All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted 
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 
With the slow move of time, — sluggish and weary 
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 
Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose, 
And, slowly as that very river flows, 
Walk'd tow'rds the temple-grove with this lament : 
" Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is sent 
Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 
Before the serene father of them all 
Bows down his summer head below the west. 
Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, 
But at the setting I must bid adieu 
To her for the last time. Night will strew- 
On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, 
And with them shall I die ; nor much it grieves 
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, 
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor-roses ; 
My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 
That I should die with it : so in all this 
We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, 
What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe 
I am hut rightly served." So saying, he 
Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ; 



Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, 
As though they jests had been : nor had he done 
His laugh at Nature's holy countenance. 
Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, 
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 
Gave utterance as he enter'd : " Ha !" I said, 
" King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom. 
And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, 
And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 
By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 
Myself to things of light from infancy ; 
And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die. 
Is sure enough to make a mortal man 
Grow impious." So he inwardly began 
On things for which no wording can be found ; 
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 
Beyond the reach of music : for the choir 
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier 
Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull 
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, 
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.- 
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles. 
Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight 
By chilly-finger'd spring. " Unhappy wight ! i. 
Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here! 
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?" 
Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 
Press'd, saying : " Sister, I would have command, 
If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." 
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate, 
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, 
To Endymion's amaze : " By Cupid's dove. 
And so thou shalt ! and by the lily truth 
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth ! " 
And as she spake, into her face there cam 
Light, as reflected from a silver flame : 
Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display 
Full golden ; in her eyes a brighter day 
Dawn'd blue and full of love. Ay, he beheld 
Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 
Her lucid bow, continuing thus : " Drear, drear 
Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear 
Withheld me first ; and then decrees of fate ; 
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state 
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-for change 
Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 
As was thy cradle ; hither shalt thou flee 
To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright 
Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good-night : 
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold. 
Before three swiftest kisses he had told. 
They vanish'd far away ! — Peona went 
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment 
565 



34 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



E^niia. 



PART I. 



Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods 

Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 

iSceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem. 

Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowshp'd lawns 

The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 

His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : 

From high Olympus had he stolen light. 

On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 

Of his great summoner, and made retreat 

Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 

A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 

At whose white feet the languid Tritons pour'd 

Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored. 

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont. 

And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, 

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 

Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 

Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 

Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair. 

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, 

Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, 

And wound with many a river to its head. 

To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret 

bed: 
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, 
And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, 
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 
All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : 
" When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake ? 
When move in a sweet body fit for life. 
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 
Of hearts and lips ? Ah, miserable me ! " 
The God, dove- footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed. 
Until he found a palpitating snake, 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 



She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson-barr'd ; 
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. 
She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, 
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 



Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 
She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete 
And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair? 
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake. 
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : 

" Fair Hermes ! crown'd with feathers, fluttering 
light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold. 
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chanting clear. 
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone. 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious 

moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. 
Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks. 
And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, 
Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! 
Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the m^id?" 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
" Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired ! 
Thou beauteous wreath with melancholy eyes, 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
Where she doth breathe ! " " Bright planet, thou hast 

said," 
Return'd the snake, " but seal with oaths, fair God ! " 
" I swear," said Hermes, " by my serpent rod. 
And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! " 
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms 

blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
" Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, 
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
She tastes unseen ; unseen her njmble feet 
Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet : 
From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green. 
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : 
And by my power is her beauty veil'd 
To keep it unaflfronted, unassail'd 
By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, 
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
Her hair in wei'rd syrops, that would keep 
Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, 
If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!" 
Then, once again, the charmed God began 
An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
566 



LAMIA. 



35 



Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, 

Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said, 

" I was a woman, let me have once more 

A woman's shape, and ch?irming as before. 

I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 

Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. 

Stoop, Hermes, let me breath upon thy brow. 

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." 

The God on half-shut feathers sank serene. 

She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen 

Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. 

It was no dream ; or say a dream it was. 

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 

Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 

One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem 

Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd ; 

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 

To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm. 

Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. 

So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 

Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 

And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, 

Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain 

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 

That faints into itself at evening hour : 

But the God fostering her chilled hand, 

She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland 

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 

Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 

Into the green-recessed woods they flew ; 

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 



Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran. 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, 
Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear. 
Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, 
Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cool- 
ing tear. 
The colors all inflamed throughout her train. 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : 
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, 
Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 
So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst. 
And rubious-argent ; of all these bereft. 
Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
Still shone her crown ; that vanish'd, also she 
Melted and disappear'd as suddenly ; 
And in the air, her new voice luting soft. 
Cried, " Lycius ! gentle Lycius ! " — Borne aloft 
With the bright mists about the mountains hoar. 
These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no more. 



Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Chenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the Persean rills, 



And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, 
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a vtood, 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
By a clear pool, whejrein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
While her robes flaunted with the daffi)dils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flower'd lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learn'd to the red heart's core : 
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbor pain ; 
Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ; 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; 
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house. 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent , 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids feir 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, 
Stretch 'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race, 
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face. 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
He would return that way, as well she knew. 
To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow 
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
Fresh anchor'd ; whither he had been awhile 
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense 

rare. 
Jove heard his vow's, and better'd his desire ; 
For by some freakful chance he made retire 
From his companions, and set forth to walk, 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : 
Over the solitary hills he fared. 
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appear'd 
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — 
Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
So neighbor'd to him, and yet so unseen 
567 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries, 
His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes 
Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white 
Turn'd — syllabling thus, " Ah, Lycius bright I 
And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown." 
He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly, 
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ; 
For so delicious were the words she sung 
It seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long : 
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. 
And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 
Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid 
Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure : 
" Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see 
Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
For pity do not this sad heart belie — 
Even as thou vanishes! so I shall die. 
Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 
To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 
Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 
Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 
Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 
So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade 
Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 
For pity do not melt ! " — " If I should stay," 
Said Lamia, " here, upon this floor of clay. 
And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, 
What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 
Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 
Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 
Empty of immortality and bliss ! 
Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
That finer spirits cannot breathe below 
In human climes, and live : Alas ! poor youth, 
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
My essence ? What serener palaces, - 
Where I may all my many senses please, 
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ? 
It cannot be — Adieu ! " So said, she rose 
Tiptoe vtith white arms spread. He, sick to lose 
The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 
Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be, 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity. 
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
And as he from one trance was wakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing, 
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant- 
ing fires. 
And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone, 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguish'd days. 
Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 



Any more subtle fluid in her veins 

Than throbbing blood, and that fhe self-same pains 

Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 

And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 

Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. 

She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 

Days happy as the gold coin could invent 

Without the aid of love ; yet in content 

Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 

Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 

At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd 

Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 

Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before 

The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more. 

But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ? 

Lycius from death awoke into amaze. 

To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 

Then from amaze into delight he fell 

To hear her vvhisper woman's lore so well ; 

And every word she spake enticed him on 

To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 

Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 

Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 

There is not such a treat among them all, 

Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 

As a real woman, lineal indeed 

From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 

Thus gentle Lamia jndged, and judged aright. 

That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 

So threw the goddess off; and won his heart 

More pleasantly by playing woman's part. 

With no more awe than what her beauty gave. 

That, while it smote, still guarantied to save. 

Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 

Marrying to every word a twin-bom sigh ; 

And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet. 

If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet. 

The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 

Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 

To a few paces ; not at all surmised - 

By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised 

They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. 

So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 



As men talk in a dream, so dorinth all, 
Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples lewd, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd, 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, 
Companion'd or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals, 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls, 
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade 
Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. 



Muflfling his face, of greeting friends in fear. 
Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald 

crown, 
Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown : 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past, 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
568 



LAMIA. 



37 



While hurried Lamia trembled : " Ah," said he, 

" Why do yau shudder, love, so ruefully ? 

Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ? " — 

" I 'm wearied," said fair Lamia : " tell me who 

Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 

His features : Lycius ! wherefore did you blind 

Yourself from his quick eyes ? " Lycius replied, 

" 'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide 

And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 

The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." 

While yet he spake they had arrived before 
A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 
Reflected in the slabbed steps below. 
Mild as a star in water ; for so new. 
And so unsullied was the marble hue. 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine. 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds yEolian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 
Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown 
Some time to any, but those two alone, 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 
Were seen about the markets : none knew where 
They could inhabit ; the most curious 
Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house ; 
And but the flitter-winged verse must tell. 
For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell, 
'T would humor many a heart to leave them thus, 
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 



PART 11. 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust. 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 

That is a doubtful tale from fairy -land, 

Hard for the non-elect to understand. 

Had Lycius lived to hand his story down. 

He might have given the moral a fresh frown, 

Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bliss 

To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice 

hiss. 
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare, 
Love, jealous growTi of so complete a pair, 
Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, 
Above the lintel of their chamber-door. 
And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 

For all this came a ruin : side by side 
They were enthroned, in the eventide, 
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
Whose airy texture, from a golden string, 
Floated into the room, and let appear 
Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear, 
Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed, 
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed. 
Saving a tythe which love still open kept. 
That they might see each other while they almost 

slept ; 
When from the slope side of a suburb hill. 
Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled. 
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
3 W 



For the first time, since first he harbor'd in 

That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, 

His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 

Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant. 

Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 

Of something more, more than her empery 

Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 

Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 

That but a moment's thought is passion's passing-bell. 

" Why do you sigh, fair creature ?" whisper'd he : 

" Why do you think ?" return'd she tenderly : 

" You have deserted me ; where am I now ? 

Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow : 

No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and I go 

From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so." 

He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, 

Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, — 

" My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 

Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 

While I am striving how to fill my heart 

With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 

How to entangle, trammel up and snare 

Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there, 

Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 

Ay, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 

My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! 

What mortal hath a prize, that other men 

May be confounded and abash'd withal. 

But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, 

And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 

Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar. 

While through the thronged streets your bridal car 

Wheels round its dazzling spokes." — The lady's cheek 

Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, 

Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 

Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 

Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, 

To change his purpose. He thereat was stung. 

Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 

Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 

Besides, for all his love, in self-despite. 

Against his better self, he took delight 

Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new 

His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 

Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 

In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell 

Fine was the mitigated fury, like 

Apollo's presence when in act to strike 

The serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she 

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny. 

And, all-subdued, consented to the hour 

When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 

Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 

" Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my 

truth, 
I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
As still I do. Hast any mortal name. 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth. 
To share our marriage-feast and nuptial mirth?" 
" I have no friends," said Lamia, " no, not one; 
My presence in wide Corinth hardly known • 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, 
569 



38 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests : 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid." 
Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank, 
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song. 
With other pageants ; but this fair unknown 
Had not a friend. So being left alone 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin), 
And knowing surely she could never win 
His foolish heart from its mad pompousness, 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the doors, 
There was a noise of wings, till in short space 
The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched 

grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the fairy-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side, 
High in the midst, in honor of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on. 
From either side their stems branch'd one to one 
All down the aisled palace ; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall 

to wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal direst, 
Silently paced about, and as she went, 
In pale contented sort of discontent, 
Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendor of eaoh nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, 
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. 
And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still, 
Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
When dreaded guests would come to spoil her solitude. 

The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. 
O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours. 
And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? 
The herd approach'd ; each guest, with busy brain, 
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain, 
And enter'd marvelling : for they knew the street, 
Remember'd it from childhood all complete 
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high- built fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : 
Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe. 
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere ; 



'Twas Apollonius : something too he laugh'd. 
As though some knotty problem, that had daft 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, 
And solve and melt : 'twas just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. " 'Tis no common rule, 
Lycius," said he, " for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong. 
And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led 
The old man through the inner doors broad spread ; 
With reconciling words and courteous mien 
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume : 
Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood. 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft. 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 
To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose 
Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. 
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered. 
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
Thus loaded with a feast, the tables stood. 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 

When 'in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, 
By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet. 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth 
could spring. 

Soft went the music that soft air along. 
While fluent Greek a vowell'd under-song 
Kept up among the guests discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; 
But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains. 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes. 
The space, the splendor of the draperies, 
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer. 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear. 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 
And every soul from human trammels freed, 
No more so strange : for merry wine, sweet wine, 
Will make Elysian shades nol: too fair, too divine. 
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height ; 
Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double 

bright : 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 
From vales deflower'd, or forest trees, branch-rent. 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought 
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
570 



LAMIA. 



39 



Of every guest ; that each, as he did please, 
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 



What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 
What for the sage, old ApoUonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage, 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We Imow her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. 



By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face. 
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took 
FuU-brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, 
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, 
Browbeating her fair form, and troubling her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch. 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
"Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? 
Know'st thou that man ? " Poor Lamia answer'd not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
More, more he gazed : his human senses reel : 
Some angry spell that loveliness absorbs ; 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 
" Lamia ! " he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ; 
A deadly silence step by step increased. 
Until it seem'd a horrid presence there. 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
" Lamia ! " he shriek'd : and nothing but the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 
" Begone, foul dream ! " he cried, gazing again 
In the bride's face, where now no azure veim 



Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 

Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume 

The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; 

Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 

" Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man ! 

Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous ban 

Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 

Here represent their shadowy presences. 

May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 

Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn. 

In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 

Of conscience, for their long-offended might, 

For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries, 

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 

Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch ! 

Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch 

Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 

My sweet bride withers at their potency." 

" Fool ! " said the sophist, in an under-tone 

Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 

From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost, 

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 

" Fool ! Fool ! " repeated he, while his eyes still 

Relented not, nor moved ; " from every ill 

Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 

And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?" 

Then Lamia breathed death-breath ; the sophist's eye. 

Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly. 

Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well 

As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 

Motion'd him to be silent ; vainly so. 

He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 

" A Serpent ! " echoed he ; no sooner said. 

Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 

And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 

As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 

On the high couch he lay! — his friends came round — 

Supported him — no pulse, or breath they found. 

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.* 



* " Philostratus, in his fourth book de Vita Jlpollonii, 
hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may not 
omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young man twenty-five 
years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, 
met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, 
which taking him by the hand, carried him home to her 
house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him slie was a 
Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he 
should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as 
never any drank, and no man should molest him ; but she, 
being fair and lovely, would die with him, that was fair 
and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, 
otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, 
though not this of love, tarried with her a while to his 
great content, and at last married her, to whose wedding, 
amongst other guests, came ApoUonius ; who, by some 
probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a 
lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, 
described by Homer, no substance but mere illusions. 
When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired 
ApoUonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and 
thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, van- 
ished in an instant : many thousands took notice of this 
fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece."— Burton's 
Anatomy of Melancholy, Part 3, Sect. 2, Memb. I, Subs. I. 

571 



40 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 



I. 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

IL 
With every morn their love grew tenderer, 

With every eve deeper and tenderer still; 
He might not in house, field, or garden stir. 

But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 
And his continual voice was pleasanter 

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, 
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

in. 

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 

And from her chamber-window he would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch, 
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies ; 

And with sick longing all the night outwear, 

To hear her morning-step upon the staii*. 

IV. 

A whole long month of May in this sad plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : 

* To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 
To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." — 

" O may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." — 

So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 

Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 



Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 

" How ill she is," said he, " I may not speak, 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 

And at the least will startle oflf her cares." 



VI. 

So said he one fair morning, and all day 
His heart beat awfully against his side ; 

And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 

Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 
Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride. 

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : 

Alas ! when passion is both meek and vtnld ! 



VIL 

So once more he had waked and anguished 

A dreary night of love and misery. 
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
She saw it waxing very pale and dead. 

And straight all flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, 
" Lorenzo ! "-^here she ceased her timid quest, 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

VIII. 
" O Isabella ! I can half perceive 

That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; , 

If thou didst ever any thing believe. 

Believe how I love thee, believe how near 
My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 
Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live 
Another night, and not my passion shrive. 

IX. 

" Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold, 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime, 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time." 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 

Great bliss was with 4;hem, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 



Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air. 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 

Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; 

He with light steps went up a western hill, 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 

XI. 

All close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,'^ 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 

Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ah ! better had it been for ever so. 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 

XII. 
Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 

Too many tears for lovers have been shed. 
Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 

Too much of pity after they are dead. 
Too many doleful stories do we see. 

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 
Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 
Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 
572 



ISABELLA. 



41 



XIII. 
But, for the general award of love, 

The litUe sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 
Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 

And Isabella's was a great distress, 
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 

Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — 
Even bees, the little alijismen of spring-bowers, 
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 

XIV. 

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 
Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 

And for them many a weary hand did swelt 
In torched mines and noisy factories, 

And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt 
In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 

Many all day in dazzling river stood. 

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 

XV. 
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath. 

And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 
For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death 

The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 
Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 

A thousand men in troubles wide and dark • 
Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel. 
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 

XVI. 
Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts 

Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ?- 
Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts 

Were of more soft ascent than lazar-stairs ? 
Why were they proud ? Because red-lined accounts 

W^re richer than the songs of Grecian years ? 
Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud. 
Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? 

XVII. 
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 

In hungry pride and gainful cowardice. 
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired. 

Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; 
The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 

And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 
Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — 
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

XVIII. 
How was it these same leger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east and west ?— 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 

XIX. 
O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon. 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow. 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune. 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
T'la ouiet gloom.s of such a piteous theme. 



XX. 

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 

Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
There is no other crime, no mad assail 

To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : 
But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 

To honor thee, and thy gone spirit greet; 
To stead thee as a verse in Enghsh tongue, 
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 

XXI. 

These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 

And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad 

That he, the servant of their trade designs, 
Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad. 

When 't was their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And many a jealous conference had they, 
And many times they bit their lips alone. 

Before they fix'd upon a surest way 

To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone; 

For they resolved in some forest dim 

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII. 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 

Into the sunrise o'er the balustrade 
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 

Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 
" You seem there in the quiet of content, 

Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 
Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 
Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 

XXIV. 

" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 

Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 

And went in haste, to get in readiness. 

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 

XXV. 

And as he to the court-yard pass'd alcmg. 

Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song. 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft; 

When, looking up, he saw her features bright 

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 

XXVI. 
" Love, Isabel ! " said he, " I was in pain 

Lest I should miss to bid thee a good-morrow : 
Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 

I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we '11 gain 

Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. 
Good-bye ! I '11 soon be back." — " Good-bye !" said she 
And as he went she chanted merrily. 
573 



42 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVII. 

So the two brothers and their murder'd man 

Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 

Lorenzo's flush with love. — ^They pass'd the water 

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII. 
There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 

There in that forest did his great love cease ; 
Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, 

It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin : 

They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease 
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, 
Each richer by his being a murderer. 

XXIX. 
They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 

Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands. 
Because of some great urgency and need 

In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 
Poor girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; 
To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 
And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 

XXX. 

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misery! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moan. 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air. 
And on her couch low murmuring, "Where ? O where ?" 

XXXI. 

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 

Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 

Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 

Of higher occupants, a richer zest, 
Came tragic; passion not to be subdued, 
And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

XXXII. 

In the mid-days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away. 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves. 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 

XXXIII. 
Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 

She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale, 
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 

Could keep him off so long ? They spake a tale 
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 

Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; 
And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 
To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 



XXXIV. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance. 
Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall 

For some few gasping moments ; like a lance. 
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 

XXXV. 

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom, 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 

Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake j 
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 

To speak as when on earth it was awake. 
And Isabella on its music hung : 

Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 

And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song. 

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briers among. 

XXXVII. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 

From the poor girl by magic of their light, 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell. 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying moreover, " Isabel, my sweet ! , 
Red whortle-berries droop above my head. 

And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 
Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 

Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 
Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 

Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 

And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 

XXXIX. 

" I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 

Upon the «kirts of human-nature dwelling 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 

While little sounds of life are round me knelling 
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass. 

And many a chapel-bell the hour is telling. 
Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 

XL. 

" I know what was, I feel full well what is, 
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss. 

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 

A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 

To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad : 

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

A greater love through all my essence steal." 
574 



ISABELLA. 



43 



XLI. 

The Spirit mourn'd " Adieu ! " — dissolved, and left 
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, 
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, 

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft. 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 

It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 

And in the dawn she started up awake ; 

XLII. 
" Ha ! ha ! " said she, " I knew not this hard life, 

I thought the worst was simple misery ; 
I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 

Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die ; 
But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! 

Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : 
I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes. 
And greet thee morn and even in the skies." 

XLIII. 
When the full morning came, she had devised 

How she might secret to the forest hie ; 
How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, 

And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 
How her short absence might be unsurmised. 

While she the inmost of the dream would try. 
Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse. 
And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 

See, as they creep along the river-side 

How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 

And, after looking round the champaign wide. 
Shows her a knife. — " What feverous hectic flame 

Burns in thee, child ? — What good can thee betide. 
That thou shouldst smile again ? " — The evening 
came. 

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 

The flint was there, the berries at his head. 

XLV. 
Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard, 

And let his spirit, like a demon-mole. 
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, 

To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole ; 
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, 

And filling it once more with human soul ? 
Ah ! this is holiday to what wa^ felt 
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI. 
She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though, 

One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 

Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 
Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow. 

Like to a native lily of the dell : 
Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 
To dig more fer'vently than misers can. 

XLVII. 

Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies ; 

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, 
And put it in her bosom, where it dries 

And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries : 

Then 'gan she work again , nor stay'd her care, 

^ut to throw back at times her veiling hair. 



XLVIII. 
That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 

Until her heart felt pity to the core 
At sight of such a dismal laboring. 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 

Three hours they labor'd at this travail sore ; 
At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 



With duller steel than the Persean sword 
They cut away no formless monster's head, 

But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

With death, as life. The ancient harps have said 

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead, 

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 

'T was love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned. 

LI. 

In anxious secrecy they took it home. 
And then the prize was all for Isabel : 

She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, 
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 

Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. 

She drench'd away : — and still she comb'd, and kept 

Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept. 

LII. 
Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 

Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 

Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfuUy,— ^ 
She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 

A garden-spot, wherein she laid it by, 
And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 

LIII. 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, 
And she forgot the blue above the trees, 

And she forgot the dells where waters run. 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day was done. 
And the new mom she saw not : but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. 

And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 

LIV. 

And so she ever fed it with thin tears. 

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 

Nature besides, and life, from human fears. 

From the fast-mouldering head there shut from 
view: 

So that the jewel, safely casketed. 

Came forth, and in perfumed leaflts spread. 
575 



44 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LV. 

O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, 
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 

LVL 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
And touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead : she withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

LVII. 

O leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf, 

Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 

LVIII. 
And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 

Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, 
And why it flourish 'd, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean : 
They could not surely give belief, that such 

A very nothing would have power to wean 
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 
And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

LIX. 
Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 

This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain ; 
For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 

And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 



And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ; 
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

LX. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place : 
The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
The guerdon of their murder they had got. 

And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
Never to turn again. — Away they went. 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXL 

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day, 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way ! " 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 

Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; 
And with melodious chuckle in the strings 

Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
'T was hid from her : " For cruel 'tis," said she, 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 

LXIII. 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 

Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd : 
Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty. 
To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! " 



SCftr SSie of St* ^Sittt^, 



I. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith. 

n. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 



The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Imprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

m. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 
576 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



45 



IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets *gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on 
their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stufF'd, in j^buth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thougHted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many .times declare. 

VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young Virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey 'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired ; not cool'd by high disdain. 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy ; all amort, 
Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-m,orrow morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She linger'd still. Meantime,' across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores, 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 
3X 



X. 

He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

XI. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her : but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saying," Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 
tace! 

XIL 

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 
Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, gossip dear, 
We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
And tell me how" — " Good Saints ! not here, not 

here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' 

XIII. 

He follow'd through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, 
And as she mutter 'd " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlit room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 

' " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve." 

XV. 
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
577 



46 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XVI. 
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art : 
Sweet lady, let her play, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 



XVII. 
" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 
« Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 
Whose passing-bell may, ere the midnight, toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX. . 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

XXI. 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
Hi> poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 



XXII. 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd 
and fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her delL 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and 'flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon : 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

XXVI. 
Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray i 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
578 



THE EVE OP ST. AGNES. 



47 



xxvm. 

Storn to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself: then fyom the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, 

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — ^how fast 
she slept. 

XXIX. 
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and'plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez; and spiced dainties, evpry one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans mercy ;" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue afFrayed eyes vdde open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 



XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

" Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 

leave me not in this eternal woe, 

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine- 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 

1 curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIIL 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." 

XXXIX. 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy-land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for fliee." 
579 



48 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-dropp'd lamp was flickering by each door ; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 



The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLII. 
And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. . 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- worm, 
Were long be-nightmared; Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform , 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



?^fi»ertoii. 



BOOK L 



Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. 

Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air w^s there. 

Not so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feathrer'd grass, 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went. 
No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place ; 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 



* If any apology be thought necessary for the appear- 
ance of the unfinished poem of Hyperion, the publishers 
beg to state that they alone are responsible, as it was print- 
ed at their particular request, and contrary to the wish of 
the author. The poem was intended to have been of 
e(^aal length with Endymion, but the reception given to 
tbat work discouraged the author from proceeding. 



Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 
Pedestall'd haply in a palace-court. 
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : 
How beautiful, if Sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. ■ 
There was a listening fear in her regard, 
As if calamity had but began ; 
As if the vanward clouds of ^vil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ-tone : 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 
Would come in these'like accents ; O how frail 
To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
" Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, poor old King? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot, say, ' O wherefore sleepest thou? 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command. 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp hghtning in- unpractised hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on : — thoughtless, why did I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 
580 



HYPERION. 



49 



I As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
' Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars. 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir. 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave : 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alternation slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postured motionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
The frozen God still couchant on the earth. 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone. 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place. 
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Theaj I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 
Naked and bare of its great diadem. 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 
To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 
How was it nurtured to such bursting forth. 
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp ? 
But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, 
And buried from all godlike exercisfe 
Of influence benign on planets pale. 
Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
Away from my own bosom : I have left 
My strong identity, my real self, 
Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 
Upon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light : 
Space region'd with life-air : and barren void ; 
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell — 
Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thou seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess ' 
A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 
There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets 

blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children ; I will give command : 
Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?" 

This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
And made his hands to struggle in the air. 



His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat. 

His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 

He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep ; 

A little time, and then again he snatch'd 

Utterance thus : — " But cannot I create ? 

Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 

Another world, another universe. 

To overbear and crumble this to naught ? 

Where is another chaos? Where ?" — That word 

Found way unto Olynjipus, and made quake 

The rebel three. Thea was startled up. 

And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 

As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. 

" This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends 

Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I hither." 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space; 
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
Which eagles cleave, upmounting from their itest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were ^ed. 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe r 
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty ;— 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snuflf'd the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God ; yet unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shudder'd he — 
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech, 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell. 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve. 
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were heard. 
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills. 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick : 
And so, when harbor'd in the sleepy west, 
After the full completion of fair day, — 
For rest divine upon exalted couch. 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
While far within each aisle and deep recess, 
His winged minions in close clusters stood. 
Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 
Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 
581 



50 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
In smoothed silence, save what solemn tubes, 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies ; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 
That inlet to severe magnificence 
Stood full-blown, for the God to enter in. 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared. 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault. 
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, 
And diamorid-paved lustrous long arcades, 
Until he reach 'd ihe great main cupola 5 
There standing fierce beneath, he stamp'd his foot, 
And from the basements deep to the high towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb. 
To this result : " O dreams of day and night ! 
O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom! 

lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 
Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 

To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light, 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
Even here, into my, centre of repose. 

The shady visions come to domineer. 
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp- 
Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes I 
Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
I will advance a terrible right arm 
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 
And bid old Saturn take his throne again." — 
He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat 
Held struggle with his throat, but came not forth ; 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more they call out " Hush ! " 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 
And from the mirror'd level where he stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown, 
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 
From overstrained might. Released, he fled 
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 
Before the dawn in season due should blush, 
He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy portals, 



Clear'd them of heavy vapors, burst them wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens through, . 
Spun round, in sable curtaining of clouds ; 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muflOiing dark 
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the eartli, with laboring thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries : 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 
Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone, 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this orb 
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings. 
Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse, 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 
And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He might not : — No, though a primeval God : 
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 
Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide 
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night 
And the bright Titan, frenzied with new woes, 
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 
Of Coelus, from the universal space, 
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear. 
" O brightest of my children dear, earth-bom 
And sky-engender'd, Son of Mysteries ! 
All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating ! at whose joys 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence ; 
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be. 
Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine, 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
DiflTused unseen throughout eternal space ; 
Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest ch^dl 
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses I 
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 
I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne ! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 
Found way from forth the thunders round his head ! 
Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there is : 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturb'd, 
Unruflfled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled : 
Now I behold in you, fear, hope, and wrath ; 
582 



HYPERION. 



51 



Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
In men who die. — ^This is the grief, O Son ! 
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 
As thou canst move about, an evident God ; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 
My life is but the hfe of winds and tides. 
No more than winds and tides can I avail : — 
But thou canst.-^Be thou therefore in the van 
Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth ! 
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — 
Ere half this region-whisper had come down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide : 
And still they were the same bright, patient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore. 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. 



BOOK II. 



Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings 

Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 

And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place 

Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd. 

It was a den where no insulting light 

Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans 

They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 

Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse. 

Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 

Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 

Ever as if just rising from a sleep. 

Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 

And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 

Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 

Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 

Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 

Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled : 

Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering. 

Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 

With many more, the brawniest in assault. 

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 

Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep 

Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs 

Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd ; 

Without a motion, save of their big hearts 

Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 

With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of pulse. 

Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 

Far from her moon had Phoebe wander'd ; 

And many else were free to roam abroad, 

But for the main, here found they covert drear. 

Scarce images of life, one*here, one there, 



Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve. 
In dull November, and their chancel vault, 
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbor gave 
Or word, or look, or action of despair. 
Creiis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 
Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined, 
lapetus another ; in his grasp, 
A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 
Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length 
Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 
Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost, 
As though in pain ; for still upon the flint 
He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 
Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 
Though feminine, than any of her sons : 
More thought than woe was in her dusky face, 
For she was prophesying of her glory ; 
And in her wide imagination stood 
Palm-shaded temples, and higti rival fanes, 
By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans, 
So leant she, iiot so fair, upon a tusk 
Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 
Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 
Shadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and mild 
As grazing ox unworried in the meads ; 
Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth, 
He meditated, plotted, and even now 
Was hurling mountains in that second war. 
Not long delay'd, that scared the younger Gods 
To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 
Not far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbor'd close 
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 
No shape distinguishable, more than when 
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds : 
And many else whose names may not be told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread, 
Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd 
With damp and slippery footing from a depth 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew 
Till on the level height their steps found ease : 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, * 

And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face : 
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 
At war with all the frailty of grief. 
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge. 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain ; for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
AflTrighted. kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 
583 



52 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more, 
When it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst. 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye. 
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 
"Titans, behold your God!" at which some groan'd; 
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
Some wept, some wail'd — all bow'd with reverence ; 
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan, 
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise 
Among immortals when a God gives sign. 
With hushing finger, how he means to load 
His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought. 
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp : 
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world, 
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here, 
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
Its strain, yvhen other harmonies, stopt short, 
Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad breast. 
Which is its Own great judge and searcher out, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
Not in the legends of the first of days. 
Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
Which starry Uranus wdth finger bright 
Saved from the shores of darkness, when the waves 
Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ; — 
And the which book ye know I ever kept 
For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 
At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 
One against one, or two, or three, or all 
Each several one against the other three, 
As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 
Drown both, and press them both against earth's face. 
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search. 
And pore on Nature's universal scroll 
Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 
Should cower beneath what, in comparison. 
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here! 
O Titans, shall I say Arise ! '—Ye groan : 
Shall I say ' Crouch ! ' — Ye groan. What can I then? 
O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
What can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 
How we can war, how engine our great wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content 

Which comes of Hiought and musing: give us help!" 



So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades, 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began. 
In murmurs, which his first-endeavoring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
" O ye, whom wrath cotisumes ! who, passion-stung, 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears. 
My voice is not a bellows unte ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
And in the proof much comfort will I give. 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
But for this reason, that thou art the King 
And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers, 
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be. 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Light, the first-fruits of that intestine broil, 
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 
Was ripening in itself The ripe hour came. 
And with it light, and light, engendering 
Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 
The whole enormous matter into life. 
Upon that very hour, our parentage. 
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : 
Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race. 
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain ; 
O folly ! for to bear all naked truths, 
And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark wtell ! 
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs j 
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 
In form and shape compact and beautiful. 
In will, in action free, companionship, 
And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
And fated to excel us, as we pass 
In glory that old Darkness : noi* are we 
Thereby more conquer'd than by us the rule 
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed. 
And fecHleth still, more comely than itself? 
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 
Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law 
That first in beauty should be first in might: 
Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
584 



HYPERION. 



53 



My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face? 
Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 
By noble-winged creatures he hath made ? 
I saw him on the calmed watere scud, 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire : farewell sad I took, 
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm." 

Whether through pozed conviction, or disdain, 
They guarded silence, when Oceaniis 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? 
But .so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene : 
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" O Father ! I am here the simplest voice, 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone, 
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 
There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
So weak a creature could turn off the help 
Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 
And know that we had parted from all hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore. 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; 
Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 

melody no more ! for while I sang. 
And vdth poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea. 

There came enchantment with the shifting wind, 
That did both drown and keep aUve my ears. 

1 threw my shell away upon the sand, 
And a wave fiU'd it, as my sense was fill'd 
With that new blissful goWen melody. , 
A living death was in each gush of sounds, 

' Each family of rapturous hurried notes, 
I That fell, one after one, yet all at once, 
j Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string 
And then another, then another strain. 
Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 
With music wing'd instead of silent plumes, 
' To hover round my head, and make me sick 
I Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame, 
! And I was stopping up my frantic ears. 
When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, 
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune. 
And still it cried, 'Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apollo ! ' 
I fled, it foUow'd me, and cried, 'Apollo!' 
O Father, and O Brethren ! had ye felt 
Those pains of mine ! O Saturn, hadst thou felt, 
3Y 



Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard !' 



So far her voice flowM on, like tin orous brook 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast. 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath : 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
" Or shall we listen to the over-wise. 
Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all ' 
That rebel Jove's whole armory were spent, 
Not world on world upon these shoulders piled. 
Could agonize me more than baby-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 
Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I roused 
Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide glaring for revenge ! " — As this he said, 
He Ufted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus : 
" Now ye are flames, I '11 tell you how to burn. 
And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
How to feed fiei'ce the crooked stings of fire. 
And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 
Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
O let him feel the evil he hath done ; 
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore, 
Much pain have I for more than loss of realms : 
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 
Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 
When all the fair Existences of heaven 
Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : — 
That was before our brows were taught to frown, 
Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 
That was before we knew the winged thing, 
Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced — 
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! " 

All eyes were on Enceladus's face, 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern : 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself He look'd upon them all, 
And in each face he saw a gleam of light. 
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remain'd. 
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn, 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps, 
All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
And every gulf, and every chasm old, 
585 



54 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And every height, and every sullen depth, 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 
And all the everlasting cataracts, 
And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade. 
Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 
His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view 
The misery his brilliance had betray'd 
To the most hateful seeing of itself. 
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, 
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 
Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
To one who travels from the dusking East : 
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, 
He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, 
He press'd together, and in silence stood. 
Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 
At sight of the dejected King of Day, 
And many hid their faces from the light : 
But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 
Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 
To where he towered on his eminence- 
There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name ; 
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, " Saturn ! " 
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 
In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 
Gave from their hollow throats the name of " Saturn !' 



BOOK m. 



Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them. Muse ! O leave them to their woes ! 

For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 

A solitary sorrow best befits 

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

Wandering in vain about bewilder'd shores. 

Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp. 

And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 

For lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 

Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue. 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 

And let the clouds of even and of mom 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 

Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd shells, 

On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn 

Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embower'd Gyclades, 

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech. 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song. 

And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade : 

Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 



Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
Together had he left his mother fair 
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 
And in the morning twilight wander'd forth 
Beside .the osiers of a rivulet. 
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 
Were lingering' in the heavens, while the thrush 
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 
There was no covert, no retired cave 
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, 
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears 
Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 
With solemn step an awful Goddess came, 
And there was purport in her looks for him, 
Which he with eager guess began to read 
Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said : 
" How camest thou over the unfooted sea ? 
Or hath that antique mien and robed form 
Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced 
The rustle of those ample skirts about 
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. 
Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before, 
And their eternal calm, and all that face,. 
Or I have dream'd." — " Yes," said the supreme shape 
" Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking up 
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast 
Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange 
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youth 
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy grie& 
To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 
From the young day when first thy infant hand 
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 
Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
Show thy heart's Secret to an ancient Power 
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
Of loveliness new-born." — Apollo then. 
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat 
Throbb'd with the syllables. — " Mnemosyne ! 
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? 
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 
Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark, 
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, 
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, 
Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 
Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I 
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 
Goddess benign ! point forth some unknown thing : 
Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
586 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



55 



What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun ! 

And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 

And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 

To any one particular beauteous star, 

And I will flit into it with my lyre. 

And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. 

I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is power ? 

Whose hand, whose essence. What divinity 

Makes this alarm in the elements, 

While I here idle listen on the shores 

In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 

O tell me, lonely Goddess ! by thy harp, 

That waileth every morn and eventide. 

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! 

Mute thou remainest — Mute ? yet I can read 

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me, 

Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions. 

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 

Creations, and destroyings, all at once 

Pour into the wide hollows of my brain. 



And deify me, as if some blithe wine. 

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 

And so become immortal." — Thus the God, 

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 

Beneath his white soft temples, stedfast kept 

Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs : 

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 

Or liker still to one who should take leave 

Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 

Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd ; 

His very hair, his golden tresses famed 

Kept undulation round his eager neck, 

During the pain, Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 

Apollo shriek'd ; — and lo ! from all his limbs 

Celestial * * > * * * * 

********* 



^iuttUunton^ ^otmu. 



What more felicity can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty ? 

Fate of the Butterfly.— SPETiSER. 



DEDICATION. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 
Glory and loveliness have pass'd away ; 

For if we wander out in early morn, 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
Into the east to meet the smiling day ; 
No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to addrn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these ; 

And I shall ever bless my destiny, 
That in a time when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please. 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 



Places of nestling green for poets made. 

Story of Rimini. 



I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 

The air was cooling, and so very still. 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 

Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, 

Had not yet lost their starry diadems 

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 



A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 

Bom of the very sigh that silence heaves : 

For not the faintest motion could be seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, 

To peer about upon variety ; 

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim. 

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; 

To picture out the quaint and curious bending 

Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : 

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had play'd upon my heels : I was light-hearted. 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I sti-aightway began to pluck a posy 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. 

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them ; 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ; 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them. 
And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them 
Moist, cool and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert-hedge with wild-brier overtwined. 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree. 
That with a score of light green brethren shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 
587 



56 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The spreading bluebells ; it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From Iheir fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds, 

Ye ardent marigolds! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids. 

For great Apollo bids 

That in these days your praises should be sung 

On many harps which he has lately strung ; , 

And when again your dewiness he kisses. 

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 

So haply when I rove in some far vale,* 

His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : 

With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 

And taper fingers catching at all things. 

To bind them all about with tiny rings. 

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 

That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 

And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 

They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. 

How silent comes the water round that bend ; 

Not the minutest whisper does it send 

To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass 

Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 

Why you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; 

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 

Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle 

With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand ! 

If you but scantily hold out the hand, 

That very instant not one will remain ; 

But turn your eye, and they are there again. 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 

And cool themselves among the emerald tresses ; 

The while, they cool themselves, they freshness give, 

And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 

So keeping up an interchange of favors. 

Like good men in the truth of their behaviors. 

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 

From low-hung branches : little space they stop ; 

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; 

Then oflf" at once, as in a wanton freak : 

Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, 

Pausing upon their yellow flutlerings. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 

That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away, 

Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 

Fanning away the dandelion's down : 

Than the light music of her nimble toes 

Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 

Playing in all her innocence of thought ! 

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook. 

Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look ; 

O let me for one moment touch her wrisj; ; 

Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 

And as she leaves me may she often turn 

Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn. 



What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep. 

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 

Of buds into ripe flowei-s ; or by the flitting 

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with all her light. 

O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 

Of this fair world and all its gentle livers; 

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams^ 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 

Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 

Thee must 1 praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 

For what has made the sage or poet write 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 

In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid. 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 

When it is moving on luxurious wings. 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 

O'er-head we see the jasmine and sweet-brier. 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles .: 

So that we feel uplifted from the world. 

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curl'd. 

So felt he, who first told how Psyche went 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 

First touch'd ; what amorous and fondling nips 

They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, 

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : 

The silver lamp, — the ravishment — the wonder,— 

The darkness — loneliness, — the fearful thunder : 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up-flown, 

To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 

So did he feel, who puU'.d the boughs aside, 

That we might look into a forest wide. 

To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 

Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 

And garlands woven, of flowers wild and sweet. 

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 

Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 

Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep, to find 

Naught but a lovely sighing of the wind 

Along the reedy stream ; a half-heard strtun, ) 

Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. _,, ' 



What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble, he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round : 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool 
The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping 
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 
588 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



57 



And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, 
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness. 
To woo its own sad image into nearness : 
Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move ; 
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot, 
Some fainter gloamings o'er his fancy shot ; 
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew 

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new. 

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness. 

Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing 

Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 

From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 

Full in the speculation of the stars. 

Ah I surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 

Into some wondrous region he had gone. 

To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too. 

Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 

And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, 

A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling. 

The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 

But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 

Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 

The poet wept at her so piteous fate, 

Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. • 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! 
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine. 
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
O for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 
Phoebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels. 
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
The evening weather was so bright, and clear, 
That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, 
Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 
And lovely women were as fair and warm, 
As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 
The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 
And crept through half-closed lattices to cure 
The languid sick ; it cool'd their fever'd sleep. 
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 
Soon they awoke clear-eyed : nor burnt with thirst- 
ing. 
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : 
And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight 
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; 
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, 
And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 
Young men and maidens at each other gazed. 
With hands held back, and motionless, amazed 



To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 

And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, 

Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. 

Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 

Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater bhsses 

That folio w'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses; 

Was there a poet bom ? — But now no more — 

My wandering spirit must no further soar. 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDIJCTION TO A POEM, 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. 
Not like the formal crest of latter days. 
But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; 
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand. 
Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand. 
Could charm them into such an attitude. 
We must think rather, that in playful mood, 
Some mountain breeze had turn'd its chief delignt 
To show this wonder of its gentle might. 
Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 
Athwart the morning air : some lady sweet, 
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 
From the worn top of some old battlement 
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent ; 
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling. 
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 
Sometimes when the good knight his rest could take. 
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake. 
With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, 
And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 
Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, 
When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 
And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 
And his dark brow for very wraA is knit? 
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, 
Leaps to the honors of a tournament, 
And makes the gazers round about the ring 
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing? 
No, no .' this is far off: — then how shall I 
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy. 
Which linger yet about long Gothic arches. 
In dark-green ivy, and among wild larches ? 
How sing the splendor of the revelries, 
When butts of wine are drank oflT to the lees ? 
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall. 
Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? 
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces 
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens, 
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : 
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ? 
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight 
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 
Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 
And come like a clear sunrise to my mind ; 
And always does my heart with pleasure dance, 
When I think on thy noble countenance : 
589 



58 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where never yet was aught more earthly seen 

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 

My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 

Thus startled unaware, 

Be jealous that the foot of other wight 

Should madly follow that bright path of light 

Traced by thy loved Libertas ; he will speak, 

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 

That I will follow with due reverence, 

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 

Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope 

To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope : 

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers ; 

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 



CALIDORE. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 

His healthful spirit eager and awake 

To feel the beauty of a silent eve. 

Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave, 

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. 

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 

And smiles at the far clearness all around, 

Until his heart is well-nigh over-wound. 

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green 

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 

And show their blossoms trim. 

Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow 

The freaks, and darlings of the black- wing'd swallow 

Delighting much, to see it half at rest, 

Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 

'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, 

The widening circles into nothing gone. 

And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple and with easy float. 
And glides into a bed of water-lilies : 
^road-leaved are they, and their white canopies 
Are upward turn'd to catch the heaven's dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew ; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore 
Went ofl!" in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light-blue mountains : but no breathing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared lo scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 
Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had knovm them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, 
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress, 
Whence, ever and anon, the joy outsprings, 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, 
Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn 
Its long-lost grandeur : flr-trees grow around, 
Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. 



The little chapel, with the cross above 
Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the white dove. 
That on the windows spreads his feathers light, 
And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 

Green-tufted islands casting their soft shades 

Across the lake ; sequester'd leafy glades. 

That through the dimness of their twilight show 

Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow 

Of the wild "cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems 

Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems 

A little brook. The youth had long been viewing 

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing 

The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught 

A trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was fraught 

With many joys for him : the warder's ken 

Had found white coursers prancing in the glen : 

Friends very dear to him he soon will see ; 

So pushes oflT his boat most eagerly. 

And soon upon the lake he skims along. 

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; 

Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly p 

His spirit flies before him so completely. 

And now he turns a jutting point of land. 

Whence may be seen the castle gloomy and grand '. 

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, 

Before the point of his light shallop reaches 

Those marble steps that through the water dip : 

Now over them he goes with hasty trip. 

And scarcely stays to ope the folding-doors : 

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 

Of halls and corridors. 



Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things 
That float about the air on azure wings. 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang 
Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang, 
Just as two -noble steeds, and palfreys twain. 
Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein ; 
While from beneath the threatening portcullis 
They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss, 
What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 
How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd ! 
Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 
While whisperings' of affection 
Made him delay lo let their tender feet 
Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet 
From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent : 
And whether there were tears of languishment, 
Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their treses, 
He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 
With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, 
All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arras. A dimpled hand, 
Fair as some wonder out of fairy land. 
Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers 
Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : 
And this he fondled with his happy cheek. 
As if for joy he would no further seek : 
When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 
Came to his ear, like something from beyond 
His present being : so he gently drew 
His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new. 
From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, 
Thank'd heaven that his joy was never-ending: 
590 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



59 



While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd 
A hand Heaven made to succor the distress'd ; 
A hand that from the world's bleak promontory 
Had lifted Calidore for deeds of Glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 

There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair 

Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal 

A man of elegance, and stature tall : 

So that the waving of his plumes would be 

High as the berries of a wild-ash tree, 

Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 

His armor was so dexterously wrought 

In shape, that sure no living man had thought 

It hard, and heavy steel : but that indeed 

It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, 

In which a spirit new come from the skies 

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 

'Tis the far-famed, the brave Sir Gondibert, 

Said the good man to Calidore alert ; 

While the young warrior with a step of grace 

Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face, 

And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 

The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 

Of the aspiring boy ; who, as he led 

Those smiling ladies, often turn'd his head 

To admire the visor arch'd so gracefully 

Over a knightly brow ; while they went by 

The lamps that from the high-roof'd walls were 

pendent, 
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated. 

The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted 

All the green leaves that round the window clamber, 

To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. 

Sir Gondibert has dofTd his shining steel, ^ 

Gladdening in the free and airy feel 

Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond 

Is looking round about him with a fond 

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spuming 

Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm 

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 

From lovely woman : while brimful of this, 

He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, 

And had such manly ardor in his eye, 

That each at other look'd half-staringly : 

And then their features started into smiles. 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came. 
Softly they blew aside the taper's flame ; 
Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower ; 
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; 
Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet's tone ; 
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : 
Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, 
As that of busy spirits when the portals 
Are closing in the West ; or that soft humming 
We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 
Sweet be their sleep. ****** 



TO SOME LADIES 

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. 

What though, while the wonders of nature exploring, 
I cannot your light mazy footsteps attend ; 



Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, 
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend : 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, 
Its spray that the wild-flower kindly bedews. 

Why Unger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling ? 

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylphs, in the moonbeamy air. 

'T is morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, 
I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 

And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 
To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 

Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of Heaven ; 

And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blend- 
ing, 
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given j 

It had not created a warmer emotion 

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with 
from you ; 
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the 
ocean. 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. 

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure 
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds), 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE 
SAME LADIES. 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountains ? 

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 

When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a 
fountain ? 

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? 
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine 

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold ? 

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing ? 

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is ? 
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? 

And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Brito- 
raartis ? 

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, 
Embroider'd with many a spring-peering flower ? 

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower ? 

Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art 
crown'd ; 
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! 
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound 
In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 
591 



60 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair 
A sunbeaming tale of a wreath, and a chain : 

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. 

This canopy mark : 'tis the work of a fay ; 

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, 
When lovely Titania was far, far away, 

And cruelty left him to sorrow and anguish. 

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute 
Wild strains, to which, spell-bound, the nightin- 
gales listen'd ! 
The wondering spirits of Heaven were mute. 

And tears 'mong the dew-drops of morning oft 
glisten'd. 

In this little dome, all those melodies strange. 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh ; 

Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change. 
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So when I am in a voluptuous vein, 

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. 

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, 
Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. 

Adieu ! valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crown'd, 
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, 

I too have my blisses, which richly abound 
In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 



TO 



Hadst thou lived in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance. 

And thy humid eyes that dance, 

In the midst of their own brightness, 

In the very fane of lightness ; 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning. 

Picture out each lovely meaning ! 

In a dainty bend they lie. 

Like to streaks across the sky, 

Or the feathers from a crow. 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair, that extends 

Into many graceful bends : 

As the leaves of hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 

Peeps the richness of a pearl. 

Downward too flows many a tress ^^/' 

With a glossy waviness, ^ 

Full, and round like globes that rise 

From the censer to the skies 

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness 

Of thy honey'd voice ; the neatness 

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd : 

With those beauties scarce discem'd. 

Kept with such sweet privacy, 

That they seldom meet the eye 

Of the little Loves that fly 

Round about with eager pry. 

Saving when with freshening lave, 

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; 



Like twin water-lilies, born 

In the coolness of the mom. 

O, if thou hadst breathed then, 

Now the Muses had been ten. 

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 

Than twin-sister of Thalia ? 

At least for ever, evermore 

Will I call the Graces four, 

Hadst thou lived when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high, 

Tell me what thou wouldst have be'en ? 

Ah ! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy brbider'd floating vest 

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast : 

Which, Heavens ! I should see. 

But that cruel Destiny 

Has placed a golden cuirass there, 

Keeping secret what is fair. 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested, 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested : 

O'er which bend four milky plumes, 

Like the gentle lily's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed ; 

Servant of heroic deed I 

O'er his loins, his trappings glow 

Like lh6^ northern lights on snow. 

Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath ! , 

Sign of the enchanter's death ; 

Bane of every wicked spell ; 

Silencer of dragon's yell. 

Alas ! thou this wilt never do : 

Thou art an enchantress too. 

And wilt surely never spill 

Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



TO HOPE. 

When by my solitary hearth I sit, 

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ; 
When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye" flit. 

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ; 
Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed. 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright 
ray. 

Should sad Despondency my musings fright, 
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away. 

Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roo^ 

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. 

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart 

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : 

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright. 

And fright him, as the morning frightens night ! 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
Tells to my painful breast a tale of sorrow, 

bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; 
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow : 

Thy heaven-bom radiance around me shed, 

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head ! 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



61 



Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 
From cruel parents, or relentless fair, 

O let me think it is not quite in vain 
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 

Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed, 

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

In the long vista of the years to roll, 

Let me not see our country's honor fade ! 

O let me see our land retain her soul ! 

Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — 

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. 
Great Liberty ! how great in plain attire ! 

With the base purple of a court oppress'd. 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : 

But let me see thee stoop from Heaven on wings 

That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! 

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar : 

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, 
Sweet Hope ! celestial influence round me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Fehrimry, 1815. 



As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried. 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 
***** 



IMITATION OF SPENSER. 



Now Morning from her orient chamber came, 
And her first footstep touch 'd a verdant hill : 
Crowning its lavmy crest with amber flame, 
Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil. 
And, after parting beds of simple flowers. 
By many streams a little lake did fill. 
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, 
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : 
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, 
And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 
Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
For sure so fair a place was never seen 
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye: 
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high. 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cerulean 
sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, 
Which, as it were in gentle amity, 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
3Z 



Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; 

Without that modest softening that enhances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again ; 

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances, 

E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I 've dormant lain : 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender 

Heavens ! how desperately do I adore 
Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 

I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
A very Red-Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast j 

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, Heavens! I cannot dare 

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd 

They be of what is worthy, — though not drest 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; 

These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine. 
Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I marlc 

Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark. 

To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 

Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? 

God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing. 

Will never give him pinions, who entreats 

Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth, there is no freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear 

A lay that once I saw her hand awake. 
Her form seems floating palpable, and near : 

Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take 
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear. 

And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

1. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberlera, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
593 






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62 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



2. 
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burnt mirth 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies: 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 
Where Beauty canqot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by epiperor and clown : 



Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 

8. 
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

. 1. 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempo or the dales of Arcady ? 

What men or gods are these ? What maidens lolh ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 

2. 
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

3. 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 



Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
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63 



Is emptied of this folk, this pious mom ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

5. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need 1» know. 



ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear. 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung. 
Even into thine own soft-couched ear : 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ! 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly. 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 

In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed. 

Blue, silver- white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love : 
The winged boy I knew ; 

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

O latest-bom and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

brightest ! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre. 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs. 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so far retired 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
Upon the midnight hours ; 



Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming ; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind. 
Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant 
. pain. 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the windj^ 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees .. 
^.JPiedge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steej^ 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep ; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuaiy will I dress 
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain J 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign. 

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same ■ 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight ~ 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night 

To let the warm Love in ! 



FANCY. 



t' 



>ym 



Ever let the Fancy roam. 
Pleasure never is at home : 
At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethA 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth^ j 
Then let winged Fancy wander 
Through the thoughts still spread beyond her; 
Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 
And the enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming ; 
Autumn's red-Iipp'd fruitage too, 
Blushing through the mist and dew. 
Cloys with tasting t What do then ? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sear fagot blazes bright, 
Spirit of a winter's night; 
When the soundless earth is muflfled, 
And the caked snow is shuiBed 
From the plowboy's heavy shoon ; 
When the Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 
Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
With a mind self-overaw'd, 
■ Fancy, high commission'd : send her! 
She has vassals to attend her : 
She will bring, in spite of frost, 
Beauties that ihe earth hath lost ; 
She will bring thee, all together. 
All delights of summer weather ^ 
All the buds and bells of May, ;/ . 
From dewy sward or thorny spray ;7' 
All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
With a still, mysterious stealth : 
She will mix these pleasures up 
Like three fit wines in a cup, 
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KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shall hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
Sweet birds antheming the mom : 
And, in the same moment — hark ! 
'Tis the early April lark, 
Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
Foraging for sticks and straw. 
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and the marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meager from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree. 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering. 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

\^ O, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Every thing is spoilt by use : 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade. 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where 's the eye, however blue. 
Doth not weary ? Where 's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where 's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet. 
While she held the goblet sweet. 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
Quickly break her prison-string. 
And such joys as these she '11 bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE. 



With the noise of fountains wondrous. 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented. 
Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 



Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ,- 



LINES ON THE ^ERMAID TAVERN. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood . 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, — 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneiath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



65 



ROBIN HOOD. 

TO A FRIEND. 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 

en knew nor rent nor leases. 



No, the bugle sounds no more. 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 
Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan. 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguil 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the " grene shawe ; " ^ 
All are gone away and past ! ". 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave, 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze ; 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes. 
Have rotted on the briny seas; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So It IS ; yet let us smg 
Honor to the old bow-string ! 
Honor to the bugle-horn ! 
Honor to the woods unshorn ! 
Honor to the Lincoln green ! 
Honor to the archer keen ! 
Honor to tight little John, 
And the horse he rode upon! 
Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 



Honor to maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,\ 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue/ 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne alofl 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble sofl 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd ■ 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine^ 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 

And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave. 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows. 
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyesL. 
597 



66 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might. 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 



As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight 
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 
Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. 
Chaucer. 



What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 
That stays one moment in an open flower, 
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 
In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? 
More healthful than the leafiness of dales? 
More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 
More full of visions than a high romance ? 
What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes! 
Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 
Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses 
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
That glance so brightly at the new sunrise. 

But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 
Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal. 
Than v^rings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? 
What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? 
It has a glory, and naught else can share it : 
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 
Chasing away all worldliness and folly : 
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder ; 
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 
And sometimes like a gentle whispering 
Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing 
That breathes about us in the vacant air ; 
So that we look around with prying stare. 
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning, 
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning ; 
To see the laurel-wreath, on high suspended. 
That is to crown our name when life is ended. 
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice. 
And from the heart up-springs, Rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 
And die away in ardent mutterings. 

No one who once the glorious sun has seen, 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 



For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow : 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
By teUing what he sees from native merit. 



O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen. 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel 

Upon some mountain-top until I feel 

A glowing splendor round about me hung. 

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? 

O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer. 

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 

Of luxury, and ray young spirit follow 

The morning snnl3eams to the great Apollo, 

Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear 

The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair 

Visions of all places : a bowery nook 

Will be elysium — an eternal book 

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying ^ 

About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; * 

And many a verse from so strange influence 

That we must ever wonder how, and whence 

It came. Also imaginings will hover 

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander 

In happy silence, like the clear Meander 

Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuUer shade, or an enchanted grot. 

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 

Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 

Then the events of this wide world I 'd seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 

Till all its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 



Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; 
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 
The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care. 
Riding the springy branches of an elm. 



O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
Myself in poesy ! so I may do the deed 
That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
Then I will pass the countries that I see 
In long perspective, and continually 
Taste ,their pure fountains. First the realm I '11 pass 
Of Flora, and old Pan : sleep in the grass. 
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 
I And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ; 
598 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



67 



Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, 

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white 

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 

As hard as lips can make it : till 

A lovely tale of human life we '11 read. 

And one will teach a tame dove how it best 

May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest : 

Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 

Will set a green robe floating round her head, 

And still will dance with ever-varied ease. 

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 

Another will entice me on, and on 

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 

Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life. 

Where I may find the agonies, the strife 

Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 

O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 

And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : 

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 

Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with sprightly 

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 

Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ,• 

And now I see them on a green hill-side 

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 

The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks 

To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 

Passing along before a dusky space 

Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 

Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. 

Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep: 

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 

Some with their faces muffled to the ear 

Between their arms ; some clear in youthful bloom. 

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 

Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 

Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 

The driver of those steeds is forward bent. 

And seems to listen : O that I might know 

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow ! 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
Against all doublings, and will keep alive 
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 



Upon the clouds ? Has she not shown us all ? 

From the clear space of ether, to the small 

Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the meaning 

Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening 

Of April meadows ? Here her altar shone, 

E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 

The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 

Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 

Its mighty self of convoluting sound. 

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 

Eternally around a dizzy void ? 

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 

With honors ; nor had any other care 

Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 

Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 

Men were thought wise who could not understand 

His glories: with a puling infant's force 

They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. 

And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 

The winds of Heaven blew, the ocean roU'd 

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 

Of summer night collected still to make 

The morning precious : Beauty was awake ! 

Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 

And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit. 

Till, Uke the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, 

And did not know it, — no, they went about. 

Holding a poor, decrepit standard out, 

Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 

The name of one Boileau ! 



O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallow'd names, in this unholy place. 
So near those common folk ; did not their shames 
Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 
Delight you ! did ye never cluster round 
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound. 
And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 
Their youth away, and die ? 'T was even so : 
But let me think away those times of woe : 
Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 
In many places ; some has been upstirr'd 
From out its crystal dwelling in a lake. 
By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 
About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 
599 



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These things are, doubtless: yet in truth we've had 

Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, 

From majesty : but in clear truth the themes 

Are ugly cubs, the Poets' Polyphemes 

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 

Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power; 

'Tis might half-slumb'ring on its own right arm. 

The very archings of her eyelids charm 

A thousand willing agents to obey. 

And still she governs with the mildest sway: 

But strength alone though of the Muses born 

Is hke a fallen angel : trees uptorn, 

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 

Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 

And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 

Of poesy, that it should be a friend 

To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 



Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 

A silent space with ever-sprouting green. 

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 

Nibble the little cupped flowers, and sing. 

Then let us clear away the choking thorns 

From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, 

Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 

With simple flowers : let there nothing be 

More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 

Naught more ungentle than the placid look 

Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 

Naught more un tranquil than the grassy slopes 

Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes ! 

As she was wont, th' imagination 

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 

And they shall be accounted poet kings 

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 

O may these joys be ripe before I die ! 



Will not some say that I presumptuously 

Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 

'Twere better far to hide my foolish face? 

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? How! 

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 

In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 

If I do fall, at least I will be laid 

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; 

And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 

But ofl^ Despondence ! miserable bane ! 

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 

A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 

What though I am not wealthy in the dower 

Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man; though no great minist'ring reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 

To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've seen 



The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 

As any thing most true ; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons — manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eyelids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to think. 

Ah! rather let me hke a madman run 

Over some precipice; let the hot sun 

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convulsed and headlong ! Stay ! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! 

How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 

Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees, 

I could unsay those — no, impossible 

Impossible ! 



For sweet relief I '11 dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange essay 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the path of honor ; brotherhood, 
And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; 
And when they're come, the very pleasant rout. 
The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 
Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 
To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; 
Many delights of that glad day recalling, 
When first my senses caught their tender falling. 
And with these airs come forms of elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 
Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 



Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes . 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
A butterfly, with golden wings broad-parted. 
Nestling a rose, convulsed as though it smarted 
With over-pleasure — many, many more. 
Might I indulge at large in all my store 
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 
I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 
Of friendly voices had just given place 
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
600 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Of pleasure's temple. — Round about were hung 

The glorious features of the bards who sung 

In other ages — cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap, 

And reaching fingers 'mid a luscious heap 

Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 

Of liney marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child : 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once more 

The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam. 

Feel all about their undulating home. 

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down 

At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown 

Of over-thinking had that moment gone 

From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes, 
As if he always listen'd to the sighs 
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's, worn 
By horrid sufferance — mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, out-stepping from the shady green, 

Starts at the sight of Laura ,• nor can wean 

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! 

For over them was seen a free display 

Of outspread wings, and from between them shone 

The face of Poesy : from off her throne 

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. 

The very sense of where I was might well 

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came 

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 

Within my breast ; so that the morning light 

Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 

And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, 

Resolving to begin that very day 

These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 

I leave them as a father does his son. 



SONNETS. 

TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

Many the wonders I this day have seen : 
The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
That fiU'd the eyes of Morn ; — the laurell'd peers 

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; — 

The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green. 

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — 
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 

Must think on what will be, and what has been. 
4 A 



E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, 
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night. 
And she her half-disco ver'd revels keeping. 

But what, without the social thought of thee, 

Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 



Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well 

Would passion arm me for the enterprise : 

But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. 

Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, 
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses 
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. 

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I '11 gather some by spells, and incantation. 



WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT 
PRISON. 

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, 

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he 

In his immortal spirit, been as free 
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 
Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait ? 

Think you he naught but prison-walls did see, 

Till, so unwiUing, thou unturn'dst the key? 
Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair, 

Culling enchanted flowers ; and he flew 
With daring Milton through the fields of air : 

To regions of his own, his genius true 
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair 

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew? 



How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 

A few of them have ever been the food 

Of my delighted fancy. — I could brood 
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, 

These will in throngs before my mind intrude : 

But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
Do they occasion ; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store ; 

The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves- 
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 

With solemn sound, and thousand others more, 
That distance of recognizance bereaves. 

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 



TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. 

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 

What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew 
From his lush clover covert : — when anew 

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields ; 
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I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 

A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 'twas the first that threw 
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew 

As is the wand that queen Titania wields. 

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd ; 

But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me, 
My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd : 

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness 
unquelld. 



TO G. A. w. 

Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance ] 

In what diviner moments of the day 

Art thou most lovely ? when gone far astray 
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? 
Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance 

Of sober thought ? Or when starting away. 

With careless robe to meet the morning ray, 
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly. 

And so remain, because thou listenest : 
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 

That I can never tell what mood is best. 
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly 

Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell. 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings : climb with me the steep, — 

Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell. 
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift 
leap, 

Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 

But though I '11 gladly trace these scenes with thee. 
Yet the sweet converse of an irmocent mind. 

Whose words are images of thoughts refined, 
Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be 

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind. 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 



TO MY BROTHERS. 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, 

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 

Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, 

Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, 

Upon the lore so voluble and deep. 
That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice 

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly, 
Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
What are this world's true joys, — ere the great Voice, 

From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly. 

November 18, 1816. 



Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there 

Among the bushes, half leafless and dry ; 

The stars look very cold about the sky. 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 

And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light-green dress. 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 



To one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 

Returning home at evening, wdth an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many Western islands have I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise- 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR. 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 

On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear, and far j 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 

Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen 

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween ; 
And let there glide by many a pearly car. 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, 

And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears. 
And as it reaches each delicious ending. 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 

And full of many wonders of the spheres : 
For what a height my spirit is contending ! 
'Tis not content so soon to be alone. 
602 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



71 



ADDRESSED TO HAYDON. 

HiGH-MiNDEDNEss, a jealousy for food, 

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame, 
Dwells here and there with people of no name, 

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : 

And where we think the truth least understood, 
Oft may be found a " singleness of aim," 
That ought to frighten into hooded shame 

A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. 

How glorious this affection for the cause 
Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 

What when a stout unbending champion awes 
Envy, and malice to their native sty ? 

TJnnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause. 
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 



ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning : 
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake. 
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 

Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 

He of the rose, the violet, the spring. 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 
And lo ! whose sted fastness would never take 

A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 

And other spirits there are standing apart 
Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 

These, these will give the world another heart, 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 

Of mighty workings ? 

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. 



It tells me too, that on a happy day. 

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, 
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
To where the great God lives for evermore. 



Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own; 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent : 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne. 
And half forget what world or worldling meant. 
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me. 

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, 
And float with them about the summer waters. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights, for when tired out with fun. 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 

December 30, 1816. 



THE HUMAN SEASONS. 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 

To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close ; contented so to look 

On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his winter too of pale misfeature, 

Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



TO KOSCIUSKO. 

Good Kosciusko ! thy great name alone 

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, 
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing 

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. 



ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER. 

Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light 
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, 
And meekly let your fair hands joined be. 
As if so gentle that ye could not see, 
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, 
Sinking away to his young spirit's night, 
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea : 
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death ; 
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips 
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. 
horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile ; 
He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! 



TO AILSA ROCK. 



Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams ! 
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ? 
When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? 
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KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How long is't since the mighty power bid 

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? 

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, 

Or when gray clouds are thy cold cover-lid ? 

Thou answer's! n6t, for thou art dead asleep ! 

Thy life is but two dead eternities — 

The last in air, the former in the deep ; 

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — 

Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, 

Another cannot wake thy giant size. 



EPISTLES. 



Among the rest a shepherd (though but young 
Yet hartnetl to his pipe) with all the skill 
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill. 

Britannia's Pastorals. — Browne. 



TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song ; 

Nor can remembrance, Malhevi^ ! bring to view 

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 

Than that in which the brother poets joy'd. 

Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd 

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 

The thought of this great partnership diffuses 

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. 

Too partial friend ! fain would I follow thee 

Past each horizon of fine poesy ; 

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 

'Mong the light-skimming gondolas far parted, 

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : 

But 'tis impossible ; far different cares 

Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs," 

And hold my faculties so long in thrall. 

That I am oft in doubt whether at all 

I shall again see Phoebus in the morning ; 

Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning ; 

Or a white JNaiad in a rippling stream ; 

Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 

Or again witness what with thee I 've seen, 

The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, 

After a night of some quaint jubilee 

Which every elf and fay had come to see : 

When bright processions took their airy march 

Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 

But might I now each passing moment give 

To the coy muse, with me she would not live 

In this dark city, nor would condescend 

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, 

Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, 

That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. 

And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 

Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters 

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres. 



And intertwined the cassia's arms unite. 

With its own drooping buds, but very white. 

Where on one side are covert branches hung, 

'Mong which the nightingales have always sung 

In leafy quiet ; where to pry, aloof 

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, 

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, 

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling 

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy. 

To say, " Joy not too much in all that's bloomy." 

Yet this is vain — O Mathew ! lend thy aid 
To find a place where I may greet the maid — 
Where we may soft humanity put on. 
And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton ; 
And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him 
Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. 
With reverence would we speak of all the sages 
Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages : 
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, . 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; 
Of him whose name to every heart's a solace, 
High-minded and unbending William Wallace 
While to the rugged north our musing turns 
We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. 
Felton ! without incitements such as these. 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease ! 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. 
And make " a sunshine in a shady place :" 
For thou wast once a floweret blooming wild. 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled. 
Whence gush the streams of song : in happy hour 
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower. 
Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 
And, as for him some gift she was devising. 
Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream 
To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. 
I marvel much that thou hast never told 
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 
Apollo changed thee : how thou next didst seem 
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream ; 
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace 
The placid features of a human face : 
That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 
And all the wonders of the mazy range 
O'er pebbly crystal^ and o'er golden sands ; 
Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands 
November, 1815. 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

Full many a dreary hour have I past. 
My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast 
With heaviness ; in seasons when I've thought 
No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught 
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze 
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays < 
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely. 
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : 
That I should never hear Apollo's song. 
Though feathery clouds were floating all along 

604 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



73 



The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, 

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen : 

That the still murmur of the honey-bee 

Would never teach a rural song to me : 

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting 

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, 

Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold 

Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 



But there are times, when those that love the bay, 

Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ; 

A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see 

In water, earth, or air, but Poesy. 

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, 

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it). 

That when a Poet is in such a trance. 

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, 

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. 

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ; 

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call. 

Is the swift opening of their wide portal. 

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear. 

Whose tones reach naught on earth but poet's ear. 

When these enchanted portals open wide, 

And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, 

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, 

And view the glory of their festivals : 

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 

Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 

Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run, 

Like the bright spots that move about the sun : 

And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar 

Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 

Yet further off; are dimly seen their bowers, 

Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; 

And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 

'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose. 

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, 

Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 

As gracefully descending, light and thin, 

Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin. 

When he up-swimmeth from the coral caves. 

And sports with half his tail above the waves. 



These wonders strange he sees, and many more, 

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore: 

Should he upon an evening ramble fare 

With forehead to the soothing breezes bare. 

Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue. 

With all its diamonds trembling through and through ? 

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 

And staidly paces higher up, and higher. 

Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? 

Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight — 

The revelries, and mysteries of night : 

And should I ever see them, I will tell you 

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. 

These aye the living pleasures of the bard: 

But richer far posterity's award. 

What does he murmur with his latest breath. 

While his proud eye looks through the film of death? 

" What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, 

Yet shaUi my spirit lofty converse hold I 



With after-times. — ^The patriot shall feel 

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel ; 

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers, 

To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 

The sage will mingle with each moral theme 

My happy thoughts sententious : he will teem 

With lofty periods when my verses fire him. 

And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire him. 

Lays have I left of such a dear delight 

That maids will sing them on their bridal-night. 

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 

When they have tired their gentle hmbs with play. 

And form'd a snowy circle on the grass. 

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head, 

Crown'd with flowers purple, white, and red : 

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, 

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying : 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

A bunch of violets full-blown, and double, 

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries. 

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes : 

For she 's to read a tale of hopes, and fears ; 

One that I foster'd in my youthful years : 

The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, 

Gush ever and anon with silent creep. 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast. 

Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! 

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view : 

Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, 

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair. 

And warm thy sons! " Ah, my dear friend and brother. 

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, 

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 

Happier, and dearer to society. 

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain 

When some bright thought has darted through m 

brain : 
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure 
Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure. 
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, 
I feel dehghted, still, that you should read them. 
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, 
Stretch'd on the grass at my best-loved employment 
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought 
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. 
E'en now, I am pillow'd on a bed of flowers. 
That crowns a lofty clifl^, which proudly towers 
Above the ocean waves. The stalks, and blades. 
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. 
On one side is a field of drooping oats. 
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coat? 
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind 
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 
And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple and green ; 
Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow; 
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, 
And the broad- wing'd sea-gull never at rest; 
For when no more he spreads his^ feathers free. 
His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
605 



74 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now 1 direct my eyes into the West, 
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 
Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say adieu ! 
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you! 
August, 1816. 



TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning. 
And with proud breast his own white shadow croAvn- 

ing; 
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 
So silently, it seems a beam of light 
Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — 
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, 
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
In striving from its crystal face to take 
Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure 
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. 
But not a moment can he there insure them. 
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
For down they rush as though they would be free. 
And drop hke hours into eternity. 
Just like that bird am I in loss of time, 
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; 
With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, 
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 
Still scooping up the water with my fingers. 
In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 

Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 

Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, 

And little fit to please a classic ear ; 

Because my wine was of too poor a savor 

For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor 

Of sparkling Helicon : — small good it were 

To take him to a desert rude and bare. 

Who had on Baise's shore reclined at ease. 

While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 

That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, 

Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : 

Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream 

Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 

Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook. 

And lovely Una in a leafy nook. 

And Archimago leaning o'er his book : 

Who had of all that 's sweet, tasted, and seen. 

From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 

From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania, 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 

One, who, of late had ta'en sweet forest walks 

With him who elegantly chats and talks — 

The wrong'd Libertas — who has told you stories 

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; 

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city. 

And tearful ladies, made for love and pity : 

With many else which I have never known. 

Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown 

Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; 

That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : 

What swell 'd with pathos, and what right divine : 



Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, 
And float along like birds o'er summer seas : 
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : 
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender- 

ness. 
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? 
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, 
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, 
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 
Show'd me that epic was of all the king. 
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring ? 
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, 
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; 
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell ; 
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen. 
Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? 
What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 
Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 
And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 
And can I e'er repay the friendly debt? 
No, doubly no ; — yet should these rhymings please, 
I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease ; 
For I have long lime been my fancy feeding 
With hopes that you would one day think the reading 
Of my rough verses not an hour misspent ; 
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 
Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires 
In lucent Thames reflected : — warm desires 
To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness. 
And morning-shadows streaking into slimness 
Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; 
To mark the time as they grow broad and shorter ; 
To feel the air that plays about the hills. 
And sips its freshness from the little rills ; 
To see high, golden corn wave in the light 
When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, 
And peers among the cloudlets, jet and white. 
As though she were reclining in a bed 
Of bean-blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 
No sooner had I stept into these pleasures. 
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures ; 
The air that floated by me seem'd to say 
" Write ! thou wilt never have a better day." 
And so I did.. When many lines I'd written. 
Though with their grace I was not over-smitten. 
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I 'd better 
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 
Such an attempt required an inspiration 
Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — 
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been 
Verses from which the soul would never wean ; 
But many days have past since last my heart 
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart ; 
By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd ; 
Or by the song of Erin pierced and sadden'd : 
What time you were before the music sitting. 
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes 
That freshly terminate in open plains. 
And revell'd in a chat that ceased not. 
When, at night-fall, among your books we got : 
No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 
606 



1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



75 



No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 
Midway between our homes : — your accents bland 
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 
Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor. 
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; 
You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain. 
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys 
That well you know to honor : — " Life's \ery toys 
With him," said L "will take a pleasant charm; 
It cannot be that aught will work him harm." 
These thoughts now come o'er me with all their 

might : — 
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good-night. 
September, 1816. 



STANZAS. 



In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy tree, 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity : 



The north cannot undo them, 
With a sleety whistle through them ; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting. 
They stay their crystal fretting. 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy ? 
To know the change and feel it. 
When there is none to heal it. 
Nor numbed sense to steal it. 
Was never said in rhyme. 

607 



THE END. 



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